


Songbirds and Corvids

by SpaceWall



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, First Age, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Multi, Rare Pairings, Reunions, Unconventional Families, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: AU from the middle of the Silmaril Quest. In which Finrod survives and lives, in that order.





	1. Crows

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the bastard child of my Turgon&Celegorm BROTP story. Someday I will actually write that. But not today, apparently. 
> 
> CW- All the things you would expect from a story that starts AFTER Finrod wrestles that wolf.  
> Additional CW- I don’t have my copy of the Silm on me, so I’m writing this from memory with an assist from FactorialRabbits. This is a warning for factually dubious content. I thought doing it as a CW was funny. HAHA. Jokes.

Finrod didn’t die, to begin with. He should have died. His body was bleeding, and broken, and he didn’t die. Beren was long gone. He probably thought Finrod dead, or else he would not have left. Sauron must have too. He wondered how close he was to death, that a Maiar wouldn’t know the difference. Probably very close. There was blood everywhere. My blood, Finrod thought. He needed help, if he was going to survive. Nargothrond was far, too far. Orodreth would be no help at all. Aegnor or Angrod would have been convenient, but they were dead. Artanis- even if she could have come, he would not want her to see him like this. She had been, relatively, safe from the horrors he had seen. She didn’t deserve to watch what would, in all probability, be a slow and painful death. Turgon? Wherever he was, he was no help at all. And likely he was too far anyways. So who?

Finrod reached out, careful not to let go of his hröa entirely. As things were, it would be far too easy to just… slip away. But he couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to Artanis. He looked around, for elves. Any elves. Help me, he thought, I am Finrod Felagund, and I am alive. Please. Help me.

There was no answer. Turgon wasn’t as far as he’d thought, but the connection that had sustained them since childhood was as silent as the grave. Finrod closed his eyes. If nobody was coming, it was better to go now than to wait for everything to slowly drain away. It was so cold, the stones of the floor sucking away all the warmth of his body, and he was tired. Too tired.

Finrod, stay with me! 

Who was that? Everything felt fuzzy. 

Finrod, I need you to concentrate. Tell me where you are.

Tol Sirion, he thought, I’m in Tol Sirion. It used to be so pretty. Why did it have to stop?

I’m on my way, the other person thought. They had a mind like music, thoughts conveyed in chord progressions. It was lovely. The prettiest mind Finrod had ever felt. 

They blushed, mentally. Well, whatever keeps you focusing, I suppose. I need you to do something for me, Finrod. It’s very important. I need you to find where you’re bleeding the most, and put pressure on it. Hard as you can. If there’s any weapons in you, do not under any circumstances take them out. 

No weapons, Finrod thought, and then, when he opened his eyes, where did my foot go?

Where did your foot- Finrod! Shit. Listen to me. I need you to make a tourniquet. Can you remember how to do that? 

Do what?

The voice walked him through it, careful but firm, and then made Finrod press down on the wound on his shoulder. It hurt. Too much. Then everything went black.

In his dreams, Finrod heard singing. It was slow and sad, but beautiful. He wanted to join the singer, to sing with him. Someone this beautiful shouldn’t be alone. 

Come on, Finrod, the singer said. Come on. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. 

I don’t want to go, he thought. 

Then stay. Please.

It’s cold here.

The singer’s mind reached out to his. I’ll keep you warm. Stay. Please. 

I will. 

Promise me.

I promise. 

Everything hurt. Everything. The lacerations of claw marks along his chest burned, and the deep puncture wounds of hundreds of teeth across his body. He knew if he pulled back the blankets, his left foot would be gone. His hands were both wrapped in bandages, and they hurt, but he couldn’t tell what hurt. Were his fingers all there? Were any of his fingers there? Where was he?

The room was stone, with one window, shuttered closed. Tapestries kept the room warm, but also beautiful. They weren’t familiar, but the scenes they portrayed were. Tirion, mostly. He wondered if he knew their maker. It was quite possible. The door to the room was just a little open. Wherever he was, he wasn’t trapped. Save for the fact that he had no way to walk. But there was no lock. That was good. It meant that this probably wasn’t some kind of cell. Probably. Certainly, his dreams had seemed kind for a prisoner. But Sauron was clever indeed. 

Just then, someone knocked at the door. Impulsively, Finrod closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing. Better safe than sorry. The hinges creaked, just a little, as it swung open.

“Is he awake?” One voice asked, quietly. 

“No,” whispered the other. “But I could have sworn I felt him wake. And the healers said it wouldn’t be long after the fever broke.”

Finrod knew both of those voices, and was almost certain Sauron wouldn’t have chosen such a strange combination to torment him with. He opened his eyes again, to be sure it was them. 

Fingon’s crown sat oddly on his head. He seemed older than his years, more tired. If he was truly there, they must have been at his home. There was no way he would have been able to get away from the crown long enough to be elsewhere. Finrod knew from experience. He wondered how Orodreth was taking to the kingship. He hoped they’d settled things peaceably in his absence. 

“See,” Maglor said, at a conversational volume now, “I told you. He’s awake.” He toasted Finrod with the cup of water he was holding. 

Finrod tried to say something to them, but his mouth was dry, and his throat burned. Maglor, oddly comforting, went to his side and helped him drink. Fingon leant up against the wall, and pulled off his crown, looking at the circlet like it had personally affronted him. Perhaps, in a way, it had. 

“We thought we might lose you,” Maglor murmured, as if he was telling a secret. “If Maedhros hadn’t sent me to relay one of his stupid love letters at exactly the right time, we would have.”

“Maglor,” Fingon admonished. His heart clearly wasn’t in it. 

“Yes, yes, I know. Very important plans for a very important alliance. And love letters.” He pulled the cup away, careful not to spill any water on Finrod, and placed it on the table. 

“Thank you,” Finrod said, but it came out as more air than words. 

“As I said, Ingo, thank Maedhros. I only happened to be the messenger.”

Fingon made a vague noise of disagreement. “Don’t sell yourself short. Finrod, I watched him give every bit of energy he had to you for weeks. The healers all agree that they couldn’t have done it without him.”

“You helped,” Maglor offered magnanimously. “And anyways, the real credit goes to Finrod himself. It takes remarkable presence of mind to successfully track down help at a time like that. You managed to find me, and get me there, and follow all my directions to not bleed out in that time.”

“Group effort,” Finrod mouthed, trusting Maglor to read the words on his lips and the surface of his mind. Maglor smiled, and reached over to place a hand on the only unbandaged part of Finrod’s arm. Almost unconsciously, he leant into the touch. Ever since he was a child, physical contact had mattered more to him than it did to most people. Maglor knew that, as did Fingon, who peeled himself off the wall to run a hand over Finrod’s hair. 

“You’ve been unconscious for several weeks,” Fingon said, keeping his voice quiet. “We’ve had Orodreth and Curufin’s versions of what happened, which don’t line up at all. Maglor says that when he arrived, that castle you built was nothing more than a pile of rubble, and Maedhros swears to all the Valar that something has angered Morgoth very, very much. We’ve sent missives to Doriath, which go unanswered, and to Turgon, which, best as anyone can tell, go undelivered. Curufin and Celegorm have been exiled from Nargothrond, so they may or may not drop in on their way to Himring. Maedhros says that if your version of events matches Orodreth’s, he’s going to flay both of them alive, and I think he’s only half joking. We’ve been looking for a way to get word to Artanis, but with the Doriathrim not responding, we can’t even be certain where she is. I’m sorry. We’ll keep trying as best we can.”

Finrod would have expected no less, really. Ever since Fingolfin had died, it had been harder to get anyone on the same page about anything. Everything was falling apart.

“Do you think you could eat something?” Maglor asked. “Just some broth.”

Finrod nodded. Now that Maglor mentioned it, he was hungry. 

“Fingon, could you ask the kitchen to send something up? And then please- get some sleep. For the sake of Maedhros’s worrying, if not your own health.”

Fingon grumbled, but did as Maglor had asked. Finrod was surprised to see him obey, and thought as much at Maglor. Maglor shrugged, evenly. 

“Maedhros didn’t send me to take a message. Not really. Everyone at Himring is trustworthy enough to carry even the most secret of missives. They all look to Maedhros as though he’s their own personal Maia. No, he sent me because he knows Fingon is working himself to death, and if he can’t be here, I’m second best.”

I didn’t know he and Fingon felt so strongly about each other. 

Maglor looked at him like he was stupid. “They’ve been married since right after Thangorodrim. Did you not notice?”

I was busy. Also, what? What happened to the Noldor not marrying our cousins?

“We’re all doomed anyways. As Maedhros said to me, when I first found out: Maglor, whatever we are on these shores, it isn’t what we were in Valinor. And anyways, they’re half-cousins.”

All of these points were fair enough. He wondered if it made them both happy, and hope that it did. They were good people, both of them, and neither deserved the hand they’d been dealt in Beleriand.

“You didn’t deserve it either,” Maglor said, still skimming the surface of his thoughts. “You least of all. You didn’t even slay kin at Alqualondë.”

That didn’t matter. Sauron had been able to use it against him anyways. It didn’t matter. He’d been wrong about hoping for the Noldor. Wrong, and failed, and gotten people killed. More people than Fingon had killed at Alqualondë, probably. More than Maedhros too. 

Maglor reached up and snapped his fingers right in front of Finrod’s face. “Hey, focus on here and now. This breath, and this moment. What Sauron did is not your fault, now or ever.”

I came so close to stopping him, Maglor. But I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t good enough. And so many people died because of me. Those who trusted me the most.

Maglor opened his mind, and touched Finrod’s, gently. I know the feeling, he thought, and showed Finrod his despair at being unable to hold his ground in the Gap, at losing Celumë there. But it isn’t our fault. As Maedhros is so fond of saying, there is no enemy but the enemy. There is no point to blaming ourselves or each other when it is his fault. 

Unbidden, the words ‘hold me’ rose to the surface of Finrod’s mind.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Maglor said, aloud. 

What was the point of dignity, really? “Please.”

It took some maneuvering, and it did hurt, but in the end they managed to get him lying in Maglor’s arms, with Maglor sitting up against the headboard. 

“I’ve got you,” Maglor murmured, against his hair. “I’ve got you, and I’m not losing you too.”

“I promised to stay,” Finrod remembered. 

Maglor pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Yes, you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things only suck LESS from here. I love Finrod and want many good and nice things for him. 
> 
> Title comes from a joke about Maglor-Mags-Magpies. I don’t remember if FactorialRabbits came up with it, or I did, or one of us got it from somewhere else. 
> 
> Celumë is the name I always use for Maglor’s canonical wife. In this AU, she came to Beleriand with him.


	2. Chough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod receives new, gives guidance, and talks to some old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Discussion of all the sad things that have happened in canon at this point. 
> 
> The red-billed chough is sometimes associated with legends of the return of King Arthur.

Coincidentally or not, Doriath finally got back to them a couple days later, much to Fingon’s despair. He sat at Finrod’s bedside with his head in his hands. The crown had long since fallen on the floor, and rolled somewhere under the bed. 

“It could be worse,” Finrod offered. “I could be dead, and then who’d broker peace between you and Thingol?” His voice was still quieter than he wanted, rasping, but the pleasure of speaking for himself was too great to resist. 

Fingon groaned. “Maglor says that he can already feel the oath pulling him to Doriath, and it’s only the knowledge that the enemy still has two that is keeping him focused.”

“I thought the jewel was in the wolf?”

“The jewel is in the hand which is in the wolf which is roaming around near-ish to Doriath. I think? The message seemed a little confused, and I don’t think they wanted to give me too much information on the off-chance I would tell the Fëanorions. Which I will. Maedhros needs all the information he can get to keep Curufin and Celegorm from rushing to Doriath this very instant.”

What Fingon really needed was a distraction. There was nothing now that he could do beyond hope and pray that it all worked out. 

“How is Maedhros?”

Fingon looked up at him. “You’d do better to ask Maglor. I haven’t seen him for three years.”

Finrod raised the eyebrow that wasn’t under bandages at him. “No love letters? Or other private communications?”

Fingon finally put two and two together, and groaned. “Maglor told you. Any other secrets he felt a pressing need to confide, or just that?”

“He said you were working yourself to death.” 

“He exaggerates,” Fingon muttered. “Maedhros worries too much.”

Finrod shook his head very carefully. “I can see it, Finno. You look exhausted. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

Fingon didn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps he knew Finrod would see the deep bags under them. “Before my father died.”

“He would not want this for you.”

When Fingon finally met his eyes, there was fire in them. “Then he shouldn’t have died!” he snapped. “He knew exactly what he was leaving me with, and he did it anyways. I’m supposed to be the one in this family who does stupid, suicidal things. Not him, and certainly not you. It should have been me.”

Finrod, unable to help himself, said, “Oh, yes, because walking across the Ice was an entirely rational decision. The only members of this family who aren’t insane are still in Valinor. And anyways, we need you here, Fingon. Now more so than ever, we need you and Maedhros to keep us together.”

“If that’s all I’m good for,” Fingon said, “I must be a pretty bad king.”

Finrod stared at him in disbelief. “Fingon, it’s the only thing that matters. We die alone. We live together.”

He sighed, deeply. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I can’t do this. Maedhros should be king, not me. He’s the one that actually keeps us together. All I do is keep him with us.”

“Well, he can’t be king again, so you’re just going to have to keep doing it for him.” Finrod tried to soften his tone, but that made it almost impossible to hear him at all. “But that doesn’t mean that the two of you have to do it alone. We can help. Let us help.”

Fingon sighed again, and picked up his crown. He’d dented the side, dropping it. Not enough that anyone who wasn’t so close would notice, but Finrod could see it. 

“I missed you,” Fingon said, out of nowhere, as he put the crown back on. “I think you sometimes forget how important you are to all of us, but if we didn’t have you, I think we would have a lot less hope. And we don’t have much of that to spare.”

He squeezed Finrod’s shoulder gently, and then he put on his king’s face, and went back to his duties. 

Finrod’s body and mind were tired from healing, but he had nothing better to do than watch the connections in his mind and see if anyone would reach out. Artanis was too far away to speak to him, but he could sense her checking the connection, every few hours, making sure he was still there. He wondered how often she’d done so while he was on the verge of dying. He reached out, and squeezed back, hard as he could. 

I’m here, he thought, though he knew the words wouldn’t reach her. I’m not leaving you. I promised to stay. 

 

His connection to Turgon remained silent and closed, and less near now than it had at Tol Sirion. He pushed that from his mind. He and the others with connections to Turgon had made a point to never triangulate a location for him with that information. Finrod had only reached out to it four or five times since Turgon had vanished, but even that was enough to give him a significant amount of information as to his general location. Too much to be safe, and he was sure that if he and Fingon pooled what they knew, they could have found Turgon in less than twelve hours. He hoped that wherever it was, Turgon wasn’t worried about him. Or, rather, he selfishly worried that Turgon was not worried because he had not known, not because he did not care.

The last few connections in Finrod’s mind that were strong enough to matter were all from Nargothrond or Valinor. But those in Valinor couldn’t know what had happened. Likely, they would never know. Of his people from Nargothrond, he could sense Orodreth, Curufin, and Celegorm. Curufin had walled up his mind eve more rigidly than Turgon, so there was no point in reaching out to him, but Orodreth’s was quite open, and Celegorm seemed to flash between avoidance and paranoid checking. He sent a simple reassurance to Orodreth, but no more, and then turned his attention to Celegorm. 

Stop worrying, he snapped, hard as he could, the next time Celegorm focused in on the bond. 

The litany of curses with which Celegorm responded was very illustrative. Finrod felt dirty just from hearing it. 

Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Finrod thought at him. 

I’ll kiss you with this mouth the next time I see you!

Oh, Celegorm. I’m not sure that’s as threatening as you meant it to be. 

In a move that was exceptionally out of character, Celegorm responded with nothing other than a feeling of deep concern and guilt. 

Who died and made you responsible? Finrod thought, feeling terribly gratified

Sadness tinged Celegorm’s thoughts. You almost did. 

What did you think was going to happen if you sent me alone?

I was more preoccupied with what would happen if you brought us along. Celegorm’s mind was suddenly filled with thoughts of he and Curufin having to kill Finrod for a silmaril. There was blood everywhere and for some obscure reason, they were on a beach. Or, well, perhaps not so obscure once Finrod thought about it. 

Why did you have to stop everyone else from going?

Finrod. I wanted you to stop. I didn’t want you to make it that far, because now we’re going to have to get the damn thing back from your friend peaceably, if Maedhros can manage it, or we’re going to have to kill him. I don’t want to have to kill him, he seemed alright. Stupid, but alright. And then I thought well, maybe if I convince the girl not to marry him even if he does get it, he’ll decide not to go, and- there was a flash of hot embarrassment. 

Celegorm, what did you do? 

The connection cut off with a slam, blocked from Celegorm’s side. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t good. If Finrod found out that he’d lain a finger on Lúthien of Doriath, he was going to find a way to cut it off. Big dumb idiot. On the other hand, it was a relief to know that Celegorm still cared. It would have hurt to think that someone who he loved so dearly had betrayed him so and not felt any guilt. He wondered if Curufin felt anything. 

Nothing left to do, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but a sound like grating in the back of his mind woke him. At first he thought it was Celegorm again, but that connection was still closed, as was Curufin’s. That meant- but it couldn’t be-

Ingo? 

Turgon’s mental voice was tired, just as Fingon’s auditory one was. Finrod thought they had never seemed more like brothers. 

Turno. What are you doing?

What am I doing? I’m making sure you haven’t gone and died on me. Fingon’s message said he thought you might not make it through the night. 

Fingon was a scheming little shit. Finrod wondered if it was Meadhros’s influence on him, or the other way around. 

I’m alright, Turno. Don’t worry. I think Fingon just wanted to see if you were listening to anything he was saying. He’s been having a rough few years. 

It took a moment to understand, and even then, he still didn’t seem to believe it. I heard you calling out, Ingo. I could feel you dying. But I didn’t- I couldn’t- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. 

Finrod could feel his tears, his heaving crying. The sort of crying one did when their emotions all felt drained. He wished he could be there, to comfort Turgon. He’d already lost his father, and his wife, and two of his siblings. Finrod, at least, could rest easy knowing that Amarië and his father were safe and far from here. They’d had their duties, their orders from Ulmo, but it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they might never see each other again. 

It’s alright, Turno. It’s going to all be alright. I promise. Maglor found me, and he saved me. I may be markedly less pretty, but, well, Maedhros has made a good few centuries of it, and he’s a great deal less pretty than he was too. 

There was a snort of tired laughter. Well, so it goes in Beleriand, I suppose.

So it goes.

There was a moment where it seemed like Turgon might close the bond again, but he stopped, and grasped tighter. You need this more than I do, right now.

Sending energy through a bond over any distance greater than about half a mile was ludicrous, and foolhardy, but Turgon did it anyways. Finrod could feel it rushing through his body, knitting flesh and bone back together. He squirmed. It itched terribly. 

Stay still, Turgon scolded. His voice had gone from tired to exhausted. 

Turno, you need to look after yourself. 

There was a flash of anger in Turgon’s mind. I’ve already buried so many people, Ingo. Elenwë, Argon, Aredhel, my father. I can’t bear to lose you too. 

Turgon, do you know what happened to Aredhel? Finrod hated to ask, but he knew it had tormented Celegorm to be the last person to see her alive, and more to know that her son might have been killed with her, for all they knew. 

The sorrow the question raised consumed everything, for an awful moment. Yes, I know. She made it to- to where I am, but her husband followed, and killed her. I executed him. Her son lives. I’ve adopted him, but I don’t know what I’m doing. Elenwë would have known what to do. You would know, if you were here. 

Turgon, that’s an awful, horrible situation. Do the best you can for him. Talk to him. Or, if he doesn’t want to talk, wait, and be there to listen when he does. That’s all any of us can do.

You’re right. But I don’t think he’ll ever want to talk to me, Ingo. How could he? I killed his father.

That was true enough. No matter how bad fathers were, they had a way of gaining their sons’ love. He wracked his brain. For what Turgon had given him, for what Turgon was risking with this conversation, there was no payment. But a little help might go a long way. 

Are you with friends? Glorfindel, or Rog? Could one of them reach out to the boy? Kinship doesn’t always mean blood, and in this case, he may find better kinship with someone who shares none of his blood. 

Rog would be a good fit, Turgon acknowledged, after a time. But Maeglin is already over a hundred. Surely he will think I am belittling him if I assign him a guardian now. 

I don’t want you to alienate him, but I think in the long term, having nobody he feels is on his side, who he can trust and trusts in turn, will do him naught but ill. Assign them a project together, and ask Rog to look after the boy. He’s a good person. He’ll do it, if you ask. 

Turgon sent him gratitude. I miss you.

I miss you too. I’ll see you on the other side.

What side is that?

I don’t know. The part of the story where we see each other again.

Well then, I suppose I’ll see you there. 

Turgon would never say it, but Finrod would. I love you. 

All in a rush Turgon replied, I love you too.

That was unexpected. Aredhel’s death must have hit him hard.

Go to sleep, Turgon said. I’ll stay until you do. I know how you hate feeling alone.

He settled into the back of Finrod’s mind, letting the easy thrum of their connection wrap around Finrod.

It was not such a hardship to sink into the familiar comfort, and sleep free from nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that for today. Thanks to everyone for following this story. I was not expecting to have HALF the reception it has.


	3. Cissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes talk, with varying degrees of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some characters expressing their low self esteem, various.

Turgon was gone when he woke, but Maglor was there. He sat in the chair at Finrod’s bedside, fiddling with a small set of pipes. Seeing Finrod shaking himself awake, he put the instrument down.

“How was Turgon?” He asked, voice even.

Finrod raised his eyebrow at him. “So, you’re the one responsible for playing that nasty trick. You shouldn’t have done it. I think you really scared him.”

Maglor crossed his arms over his chest. The gesture was disbelieving, not defensive. “If he wouldn’t even come to your aid when you called out as you did, then he was in need of a scare to return him to reality. I hadn’t thought even Turgon was cold enough to let a friend die alone.”

The Fëanorions always had misunderstood Turgon’s caution for cruelty. “He isn’t cold. I think it broke his heart to let me go. But some of us have to put other people's needs in front of our own.”

Maglor sighed, and let his arms fall. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But I think he needed someone to remind him that family, friendship, love- those things matter too. He owed a duty to you, too. And- I know how it is, to fail a duty to a brother, and justify it every day with the duty you owe to those you have left. I imagined how I would have felt, if I had known Maedhros was rescued, but hadn’t gone to him, hadn’t shown him that he was still valued, and loved. Turgon would have regretted it, later.”

“So, are you Fingon in this scenario?”

Maglor gave him a smile. “Oh, but handsomer, of course.”

With what Finrod knew now about Maedhros and Fingon’s relationship, that said more, perhaps, than it ought to have. 

In Tirion, when Finrod had just passed his first century, and Maglor had been but half a century older, there had been a flicker of something there. Just for a second. They had sung a duet, a love song, voices twining and rising higher, and it had been the most extraordinary thing that had happened to Finrod to that point. But they were cousins- half-cousins, a voice that sounded oddly like Fëanor clarified- and nothing had happened. Finrod had not thought since of how much he had wanted to kiss the notes from Maglor’s lips, to feel those skilled hands on his body. After all, who did not feel an ill-advised attraction once in their life? Certainly, he never thought any feelings had been returned. And anyways, there had been Amarië. Proper, suitable, and he had loved her. But even now, the light in Maglor’s eyes made him want to spend an eternity staring into them. 

It was a foolish, childish dream. He was married. More promised, more committed, than Finrod had ever been. And she was dead, just recently. In the Dagor Bragollach. What a cruel thing it would be, to voice his feelings now, when Maglor was grieving.

“I’ll give good copper for a peak behind those eyes,” Maglor said. Finrod felt himself blush. He must have been staring.

“I take no bribes to voice what’s mine,” Finrod offered, hoping the traditional response might be enough. It wasn’t, by the look on Maglor’s face. “I was remembering duets we played as children. And then I thought that we may never again.” 

Maglor’s face fell. “Ingo, I would want to have a duet with you if you were mute and handless.” 

A memory rose, unbidden, of foolish words spoken as children. “I thought you ‘would never play with someone who was beneath me’?” 

“And if I play with you, I still won’t have.” 

Finrod raised an eyebrow at him. Maglor never complimented anyone’s musical ability. He was legendary for it. Not even Daeron had managed to get a word of praise out of him, though his dropped jaw had served in that instance. It was Maglor’s turn to blush. 

“Come on, Ingo. We both know that it’s not your voice or your hands that make you brilliant. The most important thing you bring is right here.” 

He put his hand on Finrod’s chest, right over his heart. He must have been able to feel it pounding. Finrod sucked in a sharp breath. 

“And what if Sauron took that from me too?”

He had believed once, just as Maglor said. He had thought that his heart was enough to defeat anything. But Sauron had won anyways. He’d failed those who had been most loyal to him. It was only a fluke that he hadn’t been killed too. 

Just for a second, he caught a flash of the elf who had terrorized orcs and Teleri alike. “Then I’m going to cut his heart out and bring it to you on a fucking platter.” 

That was not particularly what Finrod had expected, but there was some darker part of him that approved. It said, yes, he deserves that. I want him to suffer in dying, just as those I loved did. But mostly, all Finrod thought was: and then I would have his heart, and not mine. 

“I don’t need his heart,” Finrod murmured. 

“You could have mine too, if you wanted,” Maglor offered, and then he leapt back as Fingon slammed the door open. 

“I am going to kill your brother!” He snapped, presumably at Maglor, which didn’t clear matters up much. “He’s vanished, not a trace left behind.” 

“Which one?” Maglor and Finrod asked, at the same time. 

“Celegorm!” 

Maglor swore colourfully. “Where was Curufin during all this?” 

“Asleep, he says.” 

Maglor groaned. “Where is Celegorm going?”

Fingon’s face grew grim. “Nobody knows.”

Finrod reached his mind out tentatively. “He isn’t dead.” 

“He’s probably making North,” Maglor said. “Those two both have funny senses of honour. Celegorm is as likely to bring you Sauron’s head as he is to properly apologize.” 

“Finrod isn’t the only person who Celegorm owes an apology,” Fingon said, ominously. 

Maglor swore some more, and stood up very quickly. “Have you spoke to Maedhros?”

Fingon scoffed. “Have I spoken to Maedhros- all I ever do is speak to Maedhros. He thinks the odds are an even split that he’s coming here, he’s going after Sauron, or he’s going to Doriath. He’s prepared to ride out tonight on the off-chance it’s Doriath, but-”

“He’ll never make it in time. Especially if Celegorm doesn’t go direct to Doriath. But I will, if I leave now. I can head him off, whichever way he’s going.” He leant down, and kissed Finrod on the forehead. “I’ll be back, and when I am, I’ll finish this conversation. Don’t misunderstand me.”

He ran out, leaving Finrod and Fingon alone together.

“I can’t misunderstand him if I didn’t understand him in the first place,” Finrod pointed out.

Fingon nodded sympathetically. “Fëanorions.”

It was too true. Finrod considered, briefly, and decided that if he could trust anyone with this, Fingon was the person. Well, not really. He would probably tell Maedhros, but he would also understand, and Finrod didn’t know anyone else who might understand. 

“Fingon-” How to phrase it? “Did you ever think that Maglor and I might be closer than- closer than just friends?”

The look Fingon gave him was one of genuine sympathy. 

“When you were younger- maybe. But we all thought you and Amarië and him and Celumë were forever. It was you four and Turgon and Elenwë who were the great hope of the house of Finwë. You were the only six of us who weren’t useless idiots destined for weird relationships. Well, shows how much I know. It turned out that Angrod and Edhellos were more useful than any of you four.”

That seemed unfair. “Celumë came to Beleriand with him.”

Fingon looked down at his hands, and seemed to make a decision. “Finrod- did you ever see Celumë give a prophecy?”

Celumë had been famous for her uncontrolled foresight. It was not an uncommon gift among the Quendi, but hers had been uncommonly strong. It was how she had met Maglor, training with Nerdanel in one of dozens of attempts to control it. That was also how Finrod had first met her, for Artanis shared the gift, albeit less strongly, and she had worked with Celumë as well. 

“Yes, I have.”

When she had first seen him, Celumë had stepped back, her eyes rolling into her head, and she had spoken without knowledge of what she said. “Ulmo will guide you.” Then, she had returned to normal, and shaken his hand, and made small talk as she waited for Artanis. He knew what she had been referring to, now, but it had taken him decades to figure it out. 

“Once, I ran into Celumë while I was sneaking out of Maedhros’s room in the middle of the night. She was sneaking into Maglor’s room, and she had a flash of prophecy. She told me, ‘Your husband will be full of love, and love but once. My husband will have two loves.’ This was before either of us were married. I should have told her, but I was afraid, and because I knew she didn’t remember her prophecies, I used it as a chance to escape so she wouldn’t know about Maedhros and me. That was wrong. I should have told her.” 

That was not what Finrod had been expecting. Well, he did not know what he had been expecting, but it was not that. Maybe a story of Maglor’s destined love for Celumë, or a platitude. Not the implication that Maglor might be able to return his feelings. Never that. 

“Fuck, Fingon. What in the Song do you expect me to do with that?”

Fingon shrugged vaguely. “I expect you to make an informed decision. I- I’ll tell Maglor when he gets back. He deserves to know.”

“Even if he wants me- which, for the record, I have no idea if he ever has or if he could as I am- but even if he does, I can’t ask any more of him than he has already given me. Without Maglor, I would be dead in the ruins of the tower I built. He gave me life. I can’t ask him to spend the rest of his loving someone who will never be able to ride or play or dance with him. I wouldn’t do that to him.”

The sorrow in Fingon’s eyes was old and deep. He was not so much older than Finrod- forty years, give or take- but in that moment, he could have been Enel himself. In the wave of grief for what he had been, Finrod had forgotten his recent discovery of the love Fingon shared with Maedhros. In that context, his words became almost cruel. Fingon sat where Maglor had sat not ten minutes earlier, and folded his hands in his lap. 

When he finally spoke, Fingon’s tone was curated. “Maedhros and I came together the year before Curufin was born. I still remember it. I came in to see him, and he turned around, holding the new baby, and said, absolutely straight faced, ‘my, Fingon, has it been a year already? Meet Atarinkë.’ As though we’d somehow produced that hellion between the two of us. But there was no question of marrying then, even though I, at least, knew there was never going to be anyone else. We were close enough kin for people to have really cared in Tirion, even if Eru would not have minded. And that does not even factor in the odds of Maedhros’s father finding out. I always thought we would have time. I thought that someday, our fathers would reconcile, and, with their support, we could weather any storm.

“If I learned anything crossing the Ice, it is that the Eldar pay no mind to time until they have run out of it. When Maglor told us what had happened, I realized that I was wrong to wait. I should have gone to Fëanor, and asked him for his son’s hand, and married Russandol in front of all the scandalized morons in Tirion. But I wasted that chance, and I promised myself that if I was ever with Maedhros again, I would not waste another. So, when I got him off Thangorodrim, I asked him to marry me. 

“I give you all this backstory so you will understand how absolutely preposterous it was when he said, to my face, ‘I would not have you marry me for pity.’ Maedhros and I will be dealing with the trauma he has surrounding his self image for a very long time. It is not particularly kind to name a child so that their worth is associated with one thing, I think. We all look in the mirror, and see all the things we cannot do. But I will remind you that the true story is almost never what your worst fears tell you it is. Always remember that.”

He stood, leant in to hug Finrod gently for a second, and left the room, and for the first time, Finrod saw a king in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cissa are a genus of short billed green magpies. They often fade in captivity, appearing turquoise rather than green.


	4. Blue Jays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends, from plenty of unexpected corners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of injury, non-graphic. General Silmarillion undertones of sadness.
> 
> Edhellos is Eldalótë’s Sindarin name.

The healers took the bandages off his right hand the next day. They had not intended to, but Turgon’s gift had speeded the healing process, and they judged it time. The pinkie finger and the ring finger after the first joint were both gone, but the others were still there, if stiff from new scar tissue and weeks of being held still. The nail of his middle finger had torn off on the hide of the wolf, and stung terribly. All things considered, it could have been much worse. But it could also have been better, and it was hard to focus on the upsides when the downsides were so obvious.

They also helped him outside, which was a long and arduous process, but once it was done, and he was sitting on a chair at the edge of the courtyard, watching elves and mortals going about their days as they always had, he couldn’t help but weep. Even despite their loses, these people were packed to the brim with life and energy. After some bickering with the healers, they agreed that he could stay and watch for some time. Finrod needed this. He needed to see that life had continued on. 

Soldiers came in and out, on horseback and on foot. Young children dashed around under foot. Older mortals walked slowly, and were shown deference by younger mortals who passed. There were even a handful of dwarves to be seen in the crowd, making trades with elven merchants and artisans. The sound of hammers in a forge rung out above it all, as it would have in any city of the Noldor. 

A lone rider on horseback rode in an hour or so after Finrod had first arrived. She was an elf, that much was clear, but her face was veiled with a swath of black, and her weapons and steed, though both excellent, were not distinctive enough for Finrod to know her by sight. But she seemed to know him, and, as she left her horse in the hands of a waiting stablegirl and her sword in the hands of a waiting squire, she made her way towards him, graceful hands reaching up to remove her veil. 

“Edhellos,” Finrod breathed, as she reached out and took his hand between both of hers. 

“Finrod, it feels as though I have not seen you in years. How is my son?”

Finrod smiled at her. “Your son the king?”

“You Noldor and your kings. Yes, my son, the king. But how is he? And how is Finduilas? And that Gwindor of hers. I liked him.”

Edhellos was a good sister, and Finrod almost surprised himself with how fiercely he had missed her. 

“Orodreth is alright. I trust him to be a good king, and to look after our people. Finduilas, I think, is worried about Gwindor. We lost his brother in the Dagor Bragollach, and there has been no word as to whether he is dead or a thrall. The two of them were very close, and Gwindor has not taken it well.”

Edhellos sighed, and leant in to kiss him on the forehead. “Poor Finduilas. And poor you. Want me to kill anyone for you?”

Edhellos, after losing Angrod, had dealt with her grief by making herself into a weapon against the enemy. She took great risks, riding alone further north than any other Noldo might have dared. Rumour had suggested her doing everything from freeing thralls to trying to assasinate Morgoth to wrestling with dragons. The whole thing worried Orodreth terribly, but none of that worry had stopped her, and Finrod wasn’t even going to try. 

“No, no, it’s alright. Though I might need you to help me stop Artanis from killing Curufin and Celegorm. I owe Maglor far too much to allow his brothers to be killed in this whole mess.” 

She laughed, wryly. “I am no fool- I’ll not get between Nerwen and her revenge. You can do that yourself.” Then she sobered. “Finrod, I- I worried greatly for you. I would have missed you, if you had died. Your friendship has meant much to me over the years, and there is too little left of our family for me to over consider any of it replacable.”

He smiled at her. “You are my sister, Edhellos. You are irreplaceable to me too.”

What he meant was, please, don’t let this war take you from us. Please, look after yourself out there, wherever you go. We love you, and not just for Angrod’s sake. He hoped she understood that message beneath his words. 

“Why did you do it?” She asked, looking deep into his eyes. Her own were slivers of ice, and they pierced deep into his heart. Finrod thought she might have been the first to ask. 

“Barahir saved us.” Edhellos had been there, that day. It was her being with Finrod instead of Angrod that had led to her living while he had died. “Beren is his son, and-”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Not that. Some of my Doriathrim contacts heard that you gave your life for the boy. Surely he did not ask for your life. Not if he is the man my Gorthebon suggests.”

“You cannot possibly know someone named Gorthebon.”

“Well, no. That would be a nickname. Long story. But stop trying to change the topic and answer my question.”

Finrod really did not want to answer the question. “We were both dying anyways, and if there was any chance he might live, I thought-”

“You thought his life was worth more than yours?” Her eyes cut into his flesh.

“In that moment, it was. There was no hope of Sauron letting me have my life, and I had already lost everything that mattered.”

Edhellos slapped him across the face. Not hard, but loud, and all the healers and guards started hard. But, well, they could hardly arrest a lady of the Noldor for slapping someone. She jabbed her finger in his face. 

“Don’t you dare, Ingoldo. Don’t you dare think that. If I have to go on, so do you. We need you. Orodreth and Finduilas and Nerwen and I. What had you lost that mattered? Your brothers? So have we! Your crown? Fuck the crown. The crown does not matter. The loyalty of your people? Who cares? That is no reason to throw yourself to the wolves.”

“Well,” Finrod snapped, “maybe it was the only choice I had left.”

Edhellos threw her arms around him, and whispered, “Never, ever do it again,” before dissolving into tears on his shoulder. He held her, awkwardly. He could not imagine what Edhellos had thought when she had heard word of his injuries. She had already lost so much, and yet still had so much to lose. Like Fingon, she had always believed herself the expendable one, and now everyone else was gone while she remained, immovable as ever.

She stayed for the rest of the week, eating at Fingon’s table and drinking his wine, and then she left before dawn, as suddenly as she had come, without even saying goodbye. 

“She does that,” Fingon said, with a shrug, when Finrod asked him about it. “Rides in like a storm, and then vanishes off the map for weeks or months at a time. She responds when I call out to her, but I think only because she recognizes my authority as king in a tacit sort of sense. I don’t ask her where she goes, and in exchange, she comes on the rare occasion that I call her.”

What Finrod would do to pick up the pieces of his broken sister. She did not deserve the cruel fate that had been made for her. No one did. 

Most of Finrod’s bandages were gone by then, leaving him free to see the full scope of the damage. Long claw marks marred his chest and upper thighs, while the worst bites were on his left shoulder and his missing left foot, of course. His left hand was missing no fingers, but a bite on the palm had gone very deep, leaving a certain level of numbness in its wake, as well as significant scarring. Other, smaller wounds decorated much of the rest of his body.

“Any sage advice?” He had asked Fingon, after the healers had left. 

Fingon stared blankly into the middle distance, and it took Finrod far too long to realize he must have been speaking to someone’s mind. 

“Maedhros says that this is the beginning of the process of healing, not the end.”

“Thank you, Maedhros,” Finrod said, because it was only polite.

Fingon must have conveyed the message, for he said a second later, “he says he’s sorry about Curufin and Celegorm. If they had asked him, he would have tried to work something out. You deserved better.”

“Don’t let him blame himself,” Finrod implored. It seemed important. “He shouldn’t. Curufin and Celegorm are their own people, for better and for worse.”

Fingon, seemingly on his own account, replied, “If I could make Maedhros stop blaming himself for all the world’s problems, half of my problems would be solved.”

Speaking of Curufin, he swept into Hithlum like a whirlwind three days later, bringing with him a terrible attitude, a great deal of concern over Celegorm’s continued absence, and about a third of the total brilliance remaining among all the Noldor combined. Say nothing of Curufin if he was not brilliant. The smithies were soon set ringing louder than even Finrod could have anticipated, and Curufin was to be seen everywhere, being consulted on every problem that had been plaguing people for years. Finrod both dreaded and yearned for him. When they finally spoke, it was under Fingon’s watchful eye, and through him, Maedhros. 

“Curufin,” Fingon said ominously, clearly speaking for Maedhros, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

He met Finrod’s eyes, carefully. “How would you feel about a prosthetic foot with some kind of weapons capacity?”

Fingon’s look of absolute and incredulous fury made him look almost as much like Fëanor as Curufin did. Finrod didn’t want to watch them fight. 

“Don’t try to run before you can walk. Or before I can walk, in this case. Just- can you just make something that will allow me to walk? I don’t want it to be bejewelled or flashy or anything. Just make it work.”

Curufin nodded solemnly. “I can do that.” He pulled several measures of string and a notebook out of his pockets. “But first, I need to take some measurements.”

Fingon gaped like a fish. “Curufinwë At-”

Curufin spun around to look at him. “You stop that, the pair of you. You aren’t Atar, and this is a matter to be worked out between Finrod and me.”

“I’ll be alright, Fingon, Maedhros,” Finrod reassured them. “What’s he going to do? Feed me to the wolves?”

Fingon shrugged helplessly and showed himself out. He was only gone for a couple seconds before Curufin doubled over in helpless laughter. 

“Feed you to the wolves? Nienna’s Pity, Finrod. I never took you for a jester.”

It had not been that funny. “Well, are you planning on it?”

Curufin’s expression soured. “No. You know that.”

“Do I know that, Curufin? Do I really? Because mostly I know that you betrayed me, and with far more cruelty than Celegorm did. And yet he is the one who feels guilty about it.”

He clenched his fists. “You were my friend. You know what the Silmarils mean to me, and yet you were still willing to go give one to some mortal- some Moriquendi-aligned mortal.”

It was a completely different problem than what had upset Celegorm. “Well, I hardly had a choice, did I?”

“And if you had, you would still have chosen to help him.”

“Probably,” Finrod agreed, “by going and convincing my kinsman to allow them to marry. Or maybe by going and reminding my cousin that she needed nobody’s permission to marry him. That is the entire point of elven marriages- they only need the consent of those involved! Do you think I am the sort of idiot to go marching up to Morgoth himself just because someone, to whom I owed no oath or life debt, asked me to?”

“Certainly not, because you would never have done such a thing for us!” Curufin snapped. And there was the heart of the matter. 

“Curufin, are you mad at me because you think I like Beren more than you?”

“No,” Curufin said, meaning yes. 

“Well, it is good that you are not, because if you were, I would be seriously doubting your intellect. I have cared about you- and your brothers- for centuries. Yes, Beren is a friend, and of the line of my friends, but that does not mean that I cannot like the both of you. There is no contradiction there. You are both my friends, and I love you. And I thought you might have cared for me also, but the way you treated me has left me seriously doubting that also.”

Curufin seemed to take a moment to process the information. Once he finally understood, he nodded seriously. “Fuck, Finrod. What are we doing to each other? Why? We barely even need Morgoth to help destroying everything.”

“If I had that answer, Curufin, I would know everything. But as it stands, all I know is that you are still my kin, and I still love you, even if I am absolutely furious with you right now.”

Curufin made a noise of vague distress, and Finrod found himself pulled into a sudden and tight hug. It crushed his ribs in all sorts of uncomfortable ways, and Finrod never wanted it to stop.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Curufin muttered. That might be as close as he would ever come to saying, ‘I love you, and I’m sorry.’ Finrod said nothing, and buried his face in Curufin’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue Jays are, like other corvids, intelligent birds. They are also very aggressive.


	5. Magpies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to pass, gifts ought to be given in good faith, and your dear author attempts to apply 10th grade biology to the fëa-hröa structure of elven physiology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical descriptions of sads.

Days rolled into weeks, with no word of Maglor or Celegorm. Curufin stalked the castle, a storm of anxiety, and rarely slept. Maedhros was worried too. Finrod could tell because Fingon had dissolved into a ball of frazzled nerves. Finrod, for his part, felt useless, watching his cousins fall apart and being unable to help them. He did what he could, distracting Curufin for an hour or two, insisting that Fingon let him do some administrative work. But it wasn’t enough, and they all knew it. 

One day, Fingon came to him in the study. The crown seemed heavier than usual, from the way his shoulders were hunched. His eyes were red. It was clear he had been crying. Finrod braced himself for bad news. 

“Beren is dead,” Fingon said, voice hoarse. “Lúthien is expected to follow him soon.”

“Did Celegorm-” Finrod could not bear to ask. All he knew was that Celegorm still lived, and that might still have been only awaiting an execution. 

Fingon shook his head hard. “No- no, circumstances are far stranger than that. The wolf killed Beren. Celegorm and Maglor were near Doriath, but the wards provide something of an obstacle for them both. Obviously. But they must have been talking to Galadriel- Artanis is going by that now, apparently- because she went to Melian and Thingol in their grief, and convinced them that the silmaril had already caused them more pain than it was worth, and by rights, as the only survivor of Beren’s original party, it was yours. So, she said, she would take it to you, and then she promptly snuck out, husband in tow, and gave it to Maglor.”

He knew then why Fingon had been crying. He wept from relief. There would be no war with Doriath. Maedhros would have his silmaril. A third of the oath would be fulfilled. Finrod, when he leant over and wept, head in his hands, cried for a completely different reason. He had failed. Even after everything, Beren was dead. Killed by wolves. As Finrod had given everything to protect him from. 

Fingon came, and held him, but something about it felt hollow. Fingon’s joy made him unable to feel what Finrod was feeling. 

“They’re all coming here,” Fingon whispered, softly. “Galadriel wants to see you.”

It would be wonderful to see her, under any name. It would have been better to see her if he had not failed. He wondered at the stranger his sister had become, who might scheme to take advantage of the death of a cousin’s husband, and the likely death of the cousin herself.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Fingon muttered, “you should stop thinking it. This is not your fault, and nothing you could have done would have prevented it.”

He was a different person than he had been in Tirion too. Fingon in Tirion had been light and gleeful, always good for another round, or a hunt, or a dance. He was more tired now, and grim, but there was something else that was different too. Turgon ever had been the responsible one of Fingolfin’s children. Fingon had been somewhere around tenth in line for the throne, and had acted like it. But with the duties of crown prince, he had risen to meet the task with not only commitment, but also grace. He had become something more than himself, but something less, too. For better and for worse, a king. 

Finrod pulled away. “Could you fetch Curufin for me?”

Fingon clearly didn’t understand, but of course, he had never been friends with Curufin. Nobody who did not love Curufin themselves could have really understood it in others. He was an antisocial, untrustworthy, condescending bastard, but he was Finrod’s favourite antisocial, untrustworthy, condescending bastard. 

Curufin turned up almost as soon as Fingon had left, carrying a large bag of prosthetic feet. Finrod didn’t even want to know how many nights he’d spent working. Curufin offered him no sympathy, and expected no congratulations on his own good fortune. Instead, he sat before Finrod, with leather straps and buckles, ribbons and padding, and worked on making the attachment functional and comfortable while Finrod examined the feet themselves, dividing them into preliminary ‘yes’ and ‘no’ piles. They ranged from ornate to practical to ridiculous. 

“Are these secret compartments?” Finrod asked. He removed a fake toe on one of the more realistic pieces to reveal a hollow space behind it.

“Never know when you might need one,” Curufin muttered, mostly to himself.

Finrod stuck a finger into the hollow foot. “I know that I would never use this. Is this your way of getting around what I said about weapons? Just giving me spaces to put them without the weapons themselves.”

Curufin’s eyes flicked downwards. “Uhh, no.”

“You ass- what did you make?”

Curufin reached into the pile and withdrew something that looked more like knives than a foot. It was clearly some sharp metal, but with a curved surface and a bit of give. 

Finrod didn’t even have to try it. “No, Curufin. Absolutely not.”

Curufin put it in the ‘yes’ pile anyways.

Finrod slept fitfully that night, and the next. Curufin, having heard that Celegorm was safe, slept for twelve hours, and then stayed up for the next three days making adjustments to the top five prosthetics Finrod had liked. In the end, Fingon, with some of Maedhros’s innate authority behind his words, had ordered him out of the forge until he could get his sleep schedule under control. Finrod, who was using crutches to support himself as he experimented with Curufin’s various constructions, found it a good use of his time to keep an eye on his friend. This, at least, allowed him to distract himself from the grief that weighed on him like stone. Days blurred together. Lúthien died. Finrod’s healers suggested a number of exercises to help him build his muscles. Thingol and Maedhros signed an accord in her honour. Finrod underwent another round of healing to try and reduce the scar tissue in his shoulder. The small party that had left Doriath moved slowly westward, and then, like Arien first rising, Edhellos returned.

“Look at you!” She exclaimed, when she saw Finrod standing with only a cane for balance. “And here I was thinking I would not have to look up to make eye contact for a while. Ah, well, I suppose it was unfair to expect you to accommodate my stature.”

Edhellos was only slightly shorter than average for an elleth, but the whole house of Finwë trended tall. When they were both standing straight, she only came up to Finrod’s nose. 

Curufin, sitting on the other side of the room, snorted. “As if I wasn’t going to have him walking again.”

Edhellos marched over and, without saying a word, slapped him hard across the face. The imprint of her palm stood out red against his cheek. 

“You deserved that,” Finrod called to him. Curufin grunted in assent. Edhellos spun to face Finrod. 

“Are you just going to let him get away with it?” She demanded. 

Curufin had done a horrible, monstrous thing. But he was also one of Finrod’s oldest friends. “Does he look like he’s ‘gotten away with it?’”

Curufin’s eyes were haunted, and his whole posture radiated exhaustion. 

“Can you even understand what you did?” Edhellos demanded. 

Curufin nodded. Then he shook his head. And then, finally, after weeks of deflection and distraction, he broke down, heaving sobs into his hands. Finrod didn’t even bother to guess what he was crying over. He made to hold Curufin, in his sorrow, but Edhellos was closer, and she knelt before him. 

“I know,” she murmured. “You carry that with you, now. Right here.” She pressed her hand to his heart. “It’s our job to carry it on. For our sons. To make the world a little brighter for them. So they never have to face any of the things we’ve had to.”

Celebrimbor and Orodreth were almost the same age, Orodreth only a decade older. Finrod, who had no children, could not imagine the strength it took to leave them behind.

Edhellos didn’t even stay the full night. Finrod was hardly surprised by that, but he was surprised when a search of the castle in the morning revealed that Curufin had packed a bag and left with her. 

“Honestly,” Fingon said, crown in his hands, “I cannot even find the energy to be shocked and appalled anymore.”

“They can look after themselves,” Finrod offered, his own nerves betraying any efforts to be consoling.

“I hope so,” Fingon muttered darkly, “for their sake and ours.”

Curufin had left gifts behind for Finrod. The two prosthetics he had liked the best in the end, fitted perfectly in a slightly lighter metal than the first set, and a single black silk glove with copper wires lining the back. This, Fingon had had to explain. 

“Curufin has theories, about how the interactions of the Fëa and the hröa effect elves using prosthetics. As I’m sure you’ll remember if you ever studied healing, there are pathways in our hröar that allow us to feel sensation and move our extremities. The reason your fingers feel numb is because the connection to your fëa has been severed. So Curufin’s theory was that a smith could create artificial connections. The original idea was to connect full prosthetic limbs, which he has not figured out, but he had a lot of success helping elves with spinal injuries. I’m guessing he thinks the wiring in the glove will stimulate the connection the was severed by the wolf’s teeth, give you better control of your fingers.”

Finrod held out his hand. False hope would have to be quashed as soon as possible. If it was true- if it could be true- well, then there was no reason to wait. Fingon helped him put on the glove. For a second, nothing happened. And then Fingon pinched his cheek very hard. It hurt, and Finrod reached up his left hand- the hand that was numb and slow to respond to his mind’s commands- without thinking about it to rub at his cheek.

“Ow!”

Fingon grinned. “Sorry, but Curufin also noticed that he had the most success when people weren’t actually paying attention to the gloves themselves. Because of course, if your fëa is busy feeling that it won’t work, it won’t work.” 

Finrod flexed his gloved hand, admiring Curufin’s work. “If- When Curufin comes back, I’m going to give him the kissing of his life for this.”

“I was under the impression Curufin was not the Fëanorion you wanted to kiss.” 

Finrod groaned at the terrible joke, but inside, his heart was filled with glee. 

It was not long after this before the party from Doriath arrived. Maglor rode at their head, and as the castle assembled, whispering, he reached into a satchel and took out the silmaril. The noise of the crowd swelled to a crescendo. Maglor raised it above his head, a triumph of Fëanor’s house. Finrod, from where he sat beside Fingon on a balcony, could only think of how small it seemed, pinched between Maglor’s graceful fingers. What a stupid thing to die for. Oh, it was beautiful, but in Finrod’s eyes, no more so than the elf who held it, and so many people had died over such a small thing. Beren. Lúthien. Fëanor. Argon. Finwë. Aegnor. Angrod. Fingolfin. Celumë. Elenwë. It wasn’t worth that. For a moment, the despair threatened to consume him. And then he saw Galadriel, fingers linked with her husband’s, and he remembered what they were really fighting for. She looked up, and met his eyes over the crowd. Her smile in that moment was worth more to him than all three silmarils would have been.

Fingon stood, and some of the crowd turned to look at him, out of deference, though most were too distracted by the silmaril to care. He raised his hand to Maglor, and then motioned for him to put the jewel away, which he did, almost begrudgingly. The spell broken, the people turned to their king. Fingon lowered his hand. 

“Welcome, cousins!” Though the speech was addressed to them, it was not their conduct that Fingon wished to inform. “Today, we celebrate a great victory against the enemy. Morgoth, who would enslave our kin and kill our friends, sits on his throne today knowing that he has lost.” He paused for some cheering. “But we also gather today to mourn. This victory was not our victory. This victory was purchased in blood. Lúthien Tinúviel. Beren Erchamion. Their valour is what has brought us here, and we will not forget it. Starting today, we will say their names in the same breaths as we say the great heroes of the Noldor, including those who died in the service of this quest. Let us remember what they gave, for love and hope. In these times, we must all hold on to love and fight for hope. For their memory, this is what we must do.” 

It was clearly a speech written by Maedhros, but Fingon delivered it with a deep commitment. In fact, as he waved the visitors forward, Finrod thought he caught a tear in his eye. Pushing himself up to standing, Finrod turned to his cousin. 

“May I say something?” Fingon nodded his assent, and Finrod turned to face their audience. “I had the brief pleasure of knowing Beren, and fighting by his side. He was kind, genuine and loyal. I have known few people with his integrity. But I also caution all of you. When we fight Morgoth- and we will fight him- don’t do it for wealth or superficial beauty. Fight for your friends, for your family, for the people you love. Fight so our children can see the world as Eru intended it. Beren did not steal a Silmaril because he wanted one. He stole it for love. That is the greatest beauty in all this world. Our highest and best calling.”

There was a silence. Then Maglor started to clap. Celegorm joined him, and with the tacit support of those who might have opposed the claim, the applause became thunderous. Finrod returned to his seat, and Fingon put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I don’t know if you can believe this, but I do not actually count the silmaril as worth more than the lives of your friends.” 

Finrod put his ungloved hand over Fingon’s. “I know. You just love Maedhros, and hold his life very dear. If our positions were reversed-”

Fingon cut him off. “Maglor benefits from it too, but you are less selfish than I. That’s a good thing. I did tell you that the Noldor needed you. This very thing you did today? That is why.”

Finrod opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Galadriel, who took the stairs up to the balcony two at a time to throw her arms around him. Fingon stood, and made a strategic retreat. 

“Never, ever scare me like that again!” She commanded, pulling back to look him over. He saw her taking in his scars, his missing foot and fingers, the glove on his other hand. Something in her eyes was harder than when he had seen her last. When she finally looked up to meet his, her eyes narrowed. 

“You let Curufin get his hands on you,” she accused. Galadriel had never liked Finrod’s friendships with the Fëanorions. But that was not her decision to make. 

“Yes, I did. He owed me atonement, and there is no finer elf when it comes to this craft. And even if there was, he is my friend.” 

“I was so scared for you, Ingo. I thought- I was so scared you were going to leave me alone.” She took his hands in hers. 

He squeezed her hands as tight as he could. “I promise you, Galadriel. I’ll never leave you, as long as the choice is mine to make.”

There was something unreadable in Galadriel’s eyes, but she seemed to push it away. “Do you remember Celeborn? I know you have met, but it has been many years, and we certainly were not married then.”

Finrod gave her a smile. “I rather think I would remember him if you had been. But tell me, how confusing was it to travel all the way here with Celegorm and Celeborn? How often did you call for one and receive the other?”

“Oh, often enough,” she said, with a little too much laughter in her voice. “In the end, Maglor mandated that we all call his brother Tyelko, which resolved the matter, although Thingol would not have been overly happy to know it.”

That reminded him. “Why did you spend so much effort on making him give the jewel up? Hadn’t he already given enough?”

There was the flash of fire in her eyes again. “Thingol and Melian did not do well by Lúthien. She deserved their trust and respect, not to be treated like a prisoner, and Beren like a criminal. What Thingol gave, he gave of his own arrogance.”

“Nerwen!”

“Well,” she snapped, “if you must know, it was what is best for everyone. I know what fate that cursed stone would have wrought, damnation sealed in the instant Beren traded his life for the father-in-law who could not have cared less if he lived or died- would have prefered him dead, in fact. Gifts like that should be given in good faith, not as bribe or obligation. Thingol’s greed would have brought death upon his people, in time. If not from Celegorm or his brothers, then from Morgoth, who already killed one king to possess that light. Thingol was not deserving of such a duty.” Galadriel pulled her hands back. “Now, the responsibility rests with the Fëanorions. To do the best they can with it.”

It was far more generosity than she had shown for Curufin. He wondered whether it was Maglor or Celegorm who had inspired the change of heart. Whichever it was, he hoped he deserved it. Even if she still hated Curufin, and might always do so, trusting any of Fëanor’s sons to choose their own fate showed considerable growth. What was more concerning was her seeming hatred of Thingol. He was their kinsman, and had done well in taking Galadriel in, despite his other faults. On the other hand, though, she had seen a wrong, a danger, and had taken action to prevent it.

Feeling an odd swell of pride, Finrod seized his cane and stood. “Well, I hope they prove your faith- our faith in them worth it. Now, re-introduce me to Celeborn. If he ever shows you any disrespect, I will be forced to use one of the many increasingly improbable weapons Curufin wanted to impart on me before he left, and then we will all be very unhappy. Especially Curufin, who will have wanted to watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magpies are one of the only non-human animals to have been observed holding ‘funerals’ and mourning.


	6. Rook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three early morning/late-night conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A group of rooks may be called a clamour or a storytelling. They are generally considered a nuisance, and sometimes an invasive species.
> 
> Some discussions of I would say canon-typical sexually predatory behaviour. If you want to skip that, just leave the room when Celegorm enters it. I’ll explain what you missed at the end.

Fortunately for their collective happiness, Celeborn was lovely. His greatest virtue was that he was utterly besotted with Galadriel. He hung onto her every word, and blushed terribly when she smiled at him, despite the fact they were already wed. But he was not afraid to challenge her either, when it really mattered. That was good. Galadriel could never have loved someone whose wits did not match her own.

Finrod did not see hide nor hair of either of his Fëanorions all that first day, and their absence was palpable. Fingon was mostly absent too, though he did duck his head in to pay courtesy to Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. The rest of their retinue, five of Galadriel’s sorcerer peers and a dozen of Celeborn’s friends, were settled into various quarters, which seemed to occupy most of Fingon’s day. 

The next morning, a nightmare woke Finrod very early. It was of Sauron, of course, but it was the worst sort, where psychological rather than physical tortures abounded. According to Maedhros, via Fingon, grounding oneself in the reality of the day to day was suppose to help with that sort of thing. So, he had dragged himself out of bed, attached the prosthetic with stammering fingers and bleary eyes, grabbed his cane, and stumbled down a flight of stairs to the room where he had been given an official desk. Maglor, who was already sitting there, looked up.

“You’re in my seat,” Finrod said, immediately feeling stupid. 

Maglor stood, and offered it back. “Sorry, I assumed you would be asleep. My apologies.”

He made to make himself scarce, but that was the opposite of what Finrod wanted. “Wait- I- could you stay?”

Maglor stayed, but he closed the door, and sat with his back against it. He seemed small, sitting there on the floor. A boy, still. Somehow.

“Is it nightmares?” He asked. He seemed genuinely empathetic. 

Finrod crossed his arms over his chest, folding in his chair as if that would protect him from Sauron’s touch. “It is, yeah. Funny, almost. I used to think Irmo was the kinder of the two brothers. Now I think that maybe they are the same, deep down. What about you? Why are you awake?”

Maglor looked at his own feet. “Fingon told me something about Celumë, something I never knew. I mean, I knew more than Fingon thought I did, but the exact prophecy was new to me. It gave me a lot to think about.”

Finrod desperately wanted to know what Maglor had already known, but he pushed down the urge. Maglor clearly didn’t know that he already knew the prophecy, and if he said he knew, Maglor would want to know why. At a time like this, it seemed more cruel than kind to force Maglor to think about Finrod’s love for him.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” 

“No,” Maglor admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “I just- before she died, Celumë told me something, a fact she had always known about our relationship, and never told me. There were all these things she had long come to terms with that I did not even know, and I just- I wish she was here to talk to me about it. All I can think is, if she knew enough to know it was time to tell me what little she did, why didn’t she look after herself? I would have gone in her place, or at least I would have gone with her. She died alone. She didn’t deserve to die alone.” 

Finrod wanted so desperately to hold him. But he thought of Celumë, and made himself stay where he was. “I’m sorry that you had to lose her. If I could change anything that happened during the Dagor Bragollach-”

Maglor cut him off. “Do not think I would trade your survival for hers. I would not.” 

“I would not mind if you did. She is your wife, and I am, I am not.” 

“I would not!” Maglor was on his feet, all of a sudden, and angry. “I never would.” 

“It would be perfectly natural-”

Maglor cut him off. “I never would. Námo take you, if that is what you think of me.”

He was gone before Finrod could call out to him. Sitting at his chair, he wept angry tears. He had not wanted to hurt Maglor, but he had. He had ruined the relationship they didn’t even have. It was too much. He should have left well enough alone. Maglor had a wife, he didn’t want anyone else. If Finrod was a better person, he would have felt the same. He had Amarië. Or he would have, if he hadn’t been such a fool as to go to Beleriand.

A knock at the door interrupted his spiralling thoughts. “What happened to you?” Celegorm asked, opening the door before Finrod could tell him to go away. 

“Well, there was this thing with Sauron.”

Celegorm laughed wryly. “Fair enough. Do you want to talk about it?”

Finrod didn’t and said as much. Celegorm, in response, pulled a flask out of his tunic, and took a seat on Finrod’s desk. 

“It’s very early,” Finrod pointed out. 

Celegorm opened the top of the flask and drank. “Or very late, if you think about it. Whatever the case, you and I have earned a little ill-advised drinking. Drink or talk. Your choice.” 

Finrod took the flask from him, and drank. “You owe me talking. What were you thinking? Curufin told me about what you tried to do to Lúthien. How could you?” 

“Varda’s bejewelled tits, Finrod, I don’t know. In the moment, it seemed like the best thing that could have happened. Beren decides not to go through with the quest. Nobody dies. Lúthien is- was extraordinary. It would have been no hardship to call her ‘wife’. And maybe she could have come to love me, in time.”

Finrod drank again, deeply. It was hard liquor, and it burned in his throat. “Would you have forced her to bed you? Taken her against her will?” 

Celegorm wrestled the flask from his hand. “That would have killed her. No. She would have come around, in time. Or at least, that was what was running through my mind. I was wrong. I know that. Maybe I knew it at the time. But what choice did I have? If I let her go, and she didn’t get the silmaril, you would all die, and if she did get it, we would have had to kill you. If the worst came to worst, as my wife, it might have built a loophole into the oath. It’s all about keeping it in our family, after all. It seemed like the best option for everyone.” 

“How can you live with it?”

Celegorm looked into the flask. “I thought about not living with it. Thingol would have executed me. I would have been guilty of what Thingol accused me of, so Maedhros wouldn’t have had to march on Doriath in my honour. Might have been better for everyone. But that wasn’t really what I was thinking about. I was thinking that I would be with Aredhel again. And that wouldn’t be so bad.”

“What changed your mind?” Finrod asked, bringing his hand up to rest solidly on Celegorm’s knee.

“I didn’t want Maglor to die with me. I tried to get him to leave, but he said if I was going into Doriath, he was going too, and fuck the consequences. It was his idea to contact Galadriel, and her idea to negotiate the silmaril from him and bring it to us.”

Finrod gave him a look. “Why do you say negotiate like that?”

Celegorm always had been terrible at secrets. “I- uh. Thingol always has been more susceptible to suggestions from beautiful ladies.” 

“Eru and all the Valar, Celegorm! She’s his niece! And she’s married! And my sister!”

Celegorm flushed scarlet. “I don’t think it went that far. But you should talk to her about it. I think- I think she was actually glad to see Maglor and me when she got out of Doriath, and Galadriel has never been glad to see me. Ever.” 

Finrod buried his head in Celegorm’s thigh. “Why is everything in Beleriand awful, Celegorm?”

“Maybe because we’re all doomed and fighting a war of attrition against a Vala?” He stroked a hand across Finrod’s hair. “But I think maybe we have to stop thinking about that and start thinking like Lúthien and Beren, seeing the chance to change the world around us. I owe them that much. And I can’t give up. I owe Aredhel that much. I should have stayed with her and the boy. Whatever happened to them, I should have prevented or died trying.”

Celegorm deserved to know. “I spoke to Turgon. Aredhel was killed by her husband, who Turgon has executed. But her son is alive.”

Celegorm pushed him up by the shoulders so their eyes could meet. “The boy is alive?” 

Finrod nodded. Celegorm kissed him right on the lips, and then he was gone, like a flash of lightning. 

“I guess he did say he was going to kiss me with those lips,” Finrod said to himself. 

In Turgon’s general direction, he thought, I miss you. Thank you for telling me about Maeglin. Celegorm needed to know.

There was no response. He hadn’t expected one. But Turgon might wake that morning with the thought in mind, and that was enough. 

He took up his quill, and opened a bottle of ink. Then, retrieving a piece of paper from the top drawer, Finrod started to write. His handwriting was not the best it had ever been, but it would do. 

_Dear Maglor,_

_Whatever I said to hurt you this morning, I’m sorry. I’ve also had a rather upsetting conversation with Celegorm (not his fault). I don’t think I’m ready to speak of this today, but I do not want you to think that is because I do not care that I upset you._

_With love and care,  
Finrod_

He let the ink dry, and then folded the note to have a servant pass to Maglor. That eased his mind some. It was always better to apologize when you had said something hurtful, even if you had not meant it at the time. With this done, he could focus on his greater fear. What Celegorm had inadvertently implied about Elu Thingol. There was only one person who would know, but she was still asleep, as any sane person would have been.

Finrod stood, put out all the lights, and went back to bed, delivering his note to a passing guard on the way. He slept fitfully for another few hours, and when he woke again, he felt like Aulë had beaten him flat with a hammer. Someone had been considerate enough to leave him breakfast on a tray, and some of it was even still warm. He contemplated his options over a cold boiled egg, and was just about to send for Galadriel when she prodded at their connection, wondering if he was awake. He confirmed he was, and she arrived just as the breakfast tray was being taken away.

“My,” she said, mostly to herself, “Celegorm has had a productive morning.”

“What makes you say that?”

Galadriel sat on the edge of his bed, like they were young again and holding a late-night conference with many secrets to share.

“Well, he went to check if you were awake earlier, so I assume he left the breakfast tray. He also woke Celeborn and I up because he heard from Maglor that he’d upset you.”

Finrod quirked his head at her. “Why was that reason to wake you both?” 

She sighed, and folded her hands in her lap. “Celegorm isn’t stupid, Ingo. I thought he was, for a long time, but he really isn’t. It’s much worse than that. He’s earnest, same as you are. He realized that if you were upset, it was because of his words about Thingol. I’m here to clear up the confusion.” 

“So he was wrong,” Finrod said, with some relief. 

“Yes,” Galadriel agreed, “and no. Nothing happened with Thingol. That implication was wrong. I convinced him with my words, not my body. But the implication that he’s a dirty bastard who likes nothing more than a pretty maiden? Everyone in Doriath knows that. He never touches. He just looks, all the time. That was part of the reason I married Celeborn as quickly as I did. Thingol was more likely to recognize Celeborn’s claim as my husband than my claim as a person.” 

Finrod clenched his fists and thought, I missed the kinslaying at Alqualondë. Maybe I should change the score. Slay some kin. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

She gestured at him. “Because you’re you, Ingo. I knew you would blame yourself. Or try to avenge me. Or both. I can look after myself, and I make my own decisions. I could have left at any time. It would not have been so far to Himlad or Himring, and I would have been perfectly safe there. I needed Melian’s teaching.”

“You shouldn’t have had to put up with him just to receive an education,” Finrod pointed out. 

She fisted her hands in the blankets, as if strangling the life out of them. “No, I shouldn’t have. But what has ever been fair in Beleriand? I know now, what I need to know, and Celeborn and I are never going back.” 

“What was so important to know?” 

“How to make shields like her,” Galadriel told him. “How to protect a place and its people.”

That was extraordinary if true. “Are you saying you could-” his mind was filled with visions of Nargothrond, perfectly safe. 

She shook her head. “Not here. I need a place that I can make my own, that can be like Doriath was for Melian, and even then, I would never be as powerful as she is. I had hoped to convince Lúthien to join us, but, well, I suppose she found her own way out in the end.” 

“Is there anywhere like Doriath?” 

Galadriel suddenly looked guilty. “I don’t know. But if there is, it will be to the east.” 

Finrod thought he understood what she was alluding to. “How far, Galadriel?” 

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but I’m going. We’re going. I was going to ask you to come, but after my talk with Celegorm this morning, I think I’ve changed my mind.” 

“Why?” Finrod demanded, feeling oddly hurt. 

She gave him a sad smile. “Because you belong here, Finrod. With these mad people. They need you. And I think you need them. Or at least, you need Maglor, don’t you?”

“Did Celegorm tell you that one too?” How had he known?

“You sent Maglor a note with your love,” Galadriel reminded him, “it doesn’t take a maia to understand what you meant.” She laughed oddly to herself. “Though maybe it does, since according to Celegorm, Maglor is convinced you’re trying to let him down gently.” 

Finrod, somewhat flustered, gaped like a fish. “He thinks I’m letting him down gently? He’s the one with the beloved wife. If anyone should be getting let down gently, it should be me” 

Galadriel cuffed him on his good shoulder. “And you have Amarië, ninny. Maglor knows that.” 

Finrod rubbed at the spot where she had hit him. “Hey!” 

“Go get him, Ingo.” She smiled at him. 

“I don’t know, Nerwen,” he murmured. “I wasn’t joking about Celumë. What kind of predator would take advantage of someone grieving for his dead wife?”

She cuffed him again. “Talk to Maglor. Please. For the sake of my sanity, if not for yourself. You speak at least six languages. Use one of them. Ask him how he would feel about having a relationship. It isn’t that hard.” 

“When did you become so mature?” 

The lack of an answer was, in some ways, answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You missed: discussion of Lúthien, the revelation that Celegorm thinks Thingol is a huge perv, Celegorm learning Maeglin is alive, Galadriel agreeing Thingol is pretty gross, and her master plan to (eventually) create a safe kingdom in the east, to which Finrod is not invited because him and Maglor should be in loooovvveee.


	7. Grey Jays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A romance in Barad Eithel. Celegorm has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied/referenced suicide of character offstage.

It took Finrod days to track Maglor down in private, but in fairness, there was an added layer of difficulty in tracking someone who was avoiding you like you were a balrog. If Maglor wasn’t out on some patrol, then he was using Fingon or Celegorm as living shields. If either of them tried to leave, Maglor would leave with them. It was an unmitigated disaster. 

“I could order him to talk to you,” Fingon offered, over a dinner Maglor had skipped.

Finrod pushed a pile of potatoes back and forth across his plate with his fork. Celegorm said, “it used to be that you couldn’t have ordered Maglor to stop talking.” 

Galadriel, sitting beside Finrod, reached over and stilled his hand. “Eat, idiot. You’re acting like a frustrated child. You told him you weren’t ready to talk. Tell him the situation has changed.” 

“Which one of us is Arafinwë’s eldest?” He demanded, but he dutifully put his fork in his mouth anyways. She was probably right. 

Fingon’s castellan, a half-Sindarin called Erestor, rolled his eyes. One of Finwë’s line was probably more than enough to deal with. 

The next morning, Finrod lay in wait in the stables. He hadn’t gotten on a horse since Sauron, but Maglor’s steed seemed to recognize him, and nuzzled at the pocket where he would have kept food if he had any. 

“Greedy,” he scolded him, stroking a hand down his neck. 

“Is this a conspiracy?” Maglor asked, from the door of the stall. 

“This is an ambush,” retorted Finrod. “I needed to tell you that I’m ready to talk, when you are.”

With a grimace on his face, Maglor said, “and if I’m ready now?”

He didn’t look ready, but, “then I would tell you that I love you, and I love Amarië, and I don’t believe I could ever replace Celumë, I would never presume that, and I understand if you don’t want me, and I would never ask you to betray her, but-”

“Celumë knew she was going to die when she left on patrol. She chose to die.” 

“What?” Demanded Finrod. The bluntness of the revelation had caught him totally off guard, even if, in retrospect, it was the only logical conclusion. 

Maglor leant up against the door of the stall. He seemed even more unsteady on his feet than Finrod was, and that was saying something. 

“At the time, I thought she was acting strange. She was preparing to leave, and we knew the danger was great, but no greater than where I was. They were a party of great warriors, and Celumë one of the finest. Before she left, she came and kissed me, one last time. Held me to her, and told me that I had too much love in my heart for one person, and that I should share. I thought she was trying to say we should have children. We found the note and the boy she’d given the prophecy of her own death to a couple of hours after I felt it happen. She’d knocked him out and gagged him. You know she never remembered prophecies if people didn’t hear them. It was a quick note, can’t have taken more than a minute or two. All it said was that she was sorry, and that she knew I would find love again one day. She said she was happy for me.” 

Poor Maglor, carrying that knowledge alone. “Can I hug you?” He nodded, and Finrod wrapped him close, his cane lifting off the ground as he rested his weight against Maglor. They stood there for a minute before Finrod asked, “can we take this somewhere we can sit?” 

Maglor led them back to his room, and invited Finrod to sit with him on the bed. It was an impersonal guest room. Nobody would have guessed that Maglor lived there, and had lived there on and off for some time. In fact, Finrod thought it might have been the same guest room Maglor had used when Fingolfin had been king- it was more spacious than Finrod’s, as if made for two.

Once the door was shut and they had some privacy, Finrod asked, “so, the prophecy Fingon heard wasn’t the only one of its kind?” 

Maglor shrugged. “No, I suppose not. At the time, I thought she was just trying to give me some kind of consolation, but now that I know she had been prophesying that for centuries, I wonder how long she consciously chose to hide it from me. Even if Fingon did not tell her, someone must have. Celumë never was one for platitudes. If she knew I would find love again, then she probably really knew.” 

“So you think that this-” 

“Yes,” Maglor said, “I think so. Two loves, none greater or less, just different. That is what is in my heart, at least, no matter what Celumë saw or didn’t see.” 

Finrod nodded solemnly. “I still care for Amarië. Maybe I always will. But she owes me nothing; I left her. Neither of us should pause our lives because we were not meant to be.”

“I cannot give you everything you deserve. Committing to this might mean you will never be with someone who can give you the bonds of marriage, their whole heart. I will not trap Celumë in Míriel’s fate. We can never wed.”

Finrod would not have asked him to. “I understand.”

Maglor gave him a rueful smile. “I’m sorry.” He looked down at the ground, lost, for a second, in his own thoughts.

“May I?” Finrod asked, turning Maglor’s face towards his own. Maglor leant in and kissed him, softly, before pulling away.

“You are truly beautiful,” Maglor whispered, breath soft.

“Not that beautiful.” Not anymore.

Maglor looked deep into his eyes, staring right into his soul. “I could write sonnets about this face.” 

As if that said anything. “Maglor, you could write sonnets about cuttlefish.” 

He laughed, and then leant in close to kiss Finrod again. This kiss was longer and more passionate. Finrod rested a hand on the small of Maglor’s back. Maglor fisted a hand in his hair. 

It wasn’t easy, but it was right. They took to sharing a bed, in Maglor’s room, where the bed had already had room for two. Sometimes, one woke the other with nightmares. Finrod saw wolves and their master, felt teeth fastening in his flesh. Maglor watched swaths of fire painted across cities and towns. They both watched the people they love die. Sometimes, they woke each other from the dreams and lay awake, holding tight as they could to what they had left. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. 

Celegorm and Galadriel teased them both voraciously. Finrod wondered if Galadriel was making up for lost time, or merely concentrating three siblings’ worth of teasing on him. Fingon never teased. It would, perhaps, have been too close to home. But he looked at them with great relief and fondness. 

“He must love Maedhros a great deal,” Finrod said quietly, one evening. They were discussing their shared worries for Fingon’s health, which had been worse since the party with the Silmaril had arrived. 

Maglor nodded. “He does, and the feeling is more than returned. I wish I could melt that crown down for scrap, I really do. It would probably be easier than prying Maedhros out of Himring.” 

“He’s a good king.” 

“I know.” Maglor sighed. “I think with a few years practice, he might be the best king we’ve ever had. He’s loyal, and brave, and deeply kind. He may not be the finest strategist, but he knows that. That’s what Maedhros is for. But it’s too much. If we don’t do something, Fingon will be dead in the next decade, mark my words.”

Finrod had been thinking about it. “Maglor, how much of the job of being High King do you think I could do without Fingon having to give me any title.”

Maglor gave him a confused look. “Not much from Nargothrond, I imagine.” 

“Why would I be in Nargothrond?” 

They stared at each other for a long second before both laughing. 

“We have to get better at this talking thing,” Maglor said. 

Finrod snorted. “Oh please, who talks to their partner? I hear all the fashionable Noldos only communicate mind to mind, these days.”

Maglor didn’t laugh. Of course he wouldn’t. He had shared his soul with a love once, and had lost everything. 

“I’m sorry.”

Maglor reached over to entwine their fingers in Finrod’s lap. “Don’t be. I just wish I could give that to you. But I can’t, and it isn’t fair. You deserve to know what it feels like, to share every moment of every day with someone you love.”

Finrod brought Maglor’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. “I want you, Maglor. Doesn’t that matter for anything?” 

Maglor pressed their lips together. Against Finrod’s, he whispered, “what you want matters more to me than anything.” 

Neither of them mentioned the Silmaril that Maglor was keeping in his bedside drawer like an idiot. There had been a fragile peace formed in the family, in this time of victory and loss. Neither of them wanted to break it. It took almost a week until Celegorm did that for them.

“You want what?” Fingon demanded, from his throne.

Celegorm knelt before him. Finrod wondered how much this was costing his pride. “My liege, I ask permission to be relieved of my duties.” 

Fingon’s expression turned thunderous. “What duties, exactly, would those be?” 

“My king, I asked to be removed from my position as a Lord of the Noldor, and your vassal. In my place, I recommend my nephew Celebrimbor. He is already with our people in Nargothrond, so the choice is prudent.” 

“Why are you asking me, Celegorm?” 

“With your permission, I would travel east, as an aide to Princess Galadriel.” 

Finrod and Maglor both winced. Fingon turned to look at the lady in question. “Princess. Galadriel.” 

She curtsied, the little hellion. “With the recent death of my cousin, I have become the closest thing Thingol has to an acceptable heir. No offence, Finrod.” 

“None taken,” Finrod muttered. 

Fingon shook his head, half amused. “Be that as it may, Celegorm, the question I meant was rather different. I am not your direct liege. I will have to overrule him to grant you this. A fact which I am certain you know. So, why are you asking me?”

Maglor crossed his arms defensively over his chest. He must have known what was coming before Celegorm said it. 

“Because he would say no.”

There was a deep sadness in Fingon’s eyes. “He would.” He stood. Finrod thought he saw a tremor in his hand. “Granted, Celegorm. Erestor, have official documents and a seal drawn up for Celebrimbor. He can make his own ring. Everyone else, take lunch. Estë have mercy on us all.”

He walked away as fast as he could without breaking into a sprint. Finrod could never have kept up, so he placed a hand on Maglor’s shoulder and said, “go.”

Once they were both gone, and the rest of the room dismissed for an hour, Finrod made his way over to Celegorm and Galadriel.

“Two questions,” he said, cautious as he could. “First, what is your aim regarding my sister? Second, what just happened? Actually, no, three questions. Princess, Galadriel? Really? Lúthien’s body is barely cold.”

Galadriel made a vague noise of protest. Celegorm straightened, smoothing out his tunic. “I failed one Princess of Doriath, Finrod. I won’t fail another. I promise you that. And yes, come to that, she is a princess. The line of succession does not wait for grief. Do you think Maedhros got a proper mourning period after our father died? Because I can assure you he didn’t. Neither did Fingon. Or my father, for that matter.”

He was being oddly defensive about the whole thing. Everyone was acting oddly. “Galadriel, I may not be offended, but I am confused. Why would Thingol choose you as an heir? Not over me, I mean. I know why Thingol wouldn’t want me. I’m too Noldorin. But why not Elmo’s line?”

Galadriel jerked her thumb over at Celeborn, who was standing in a corner charming one of Fingon’s generals. “You’re looking at the heir of Elmo’s line.”

Sneaky little shits. “Are you telling me that you married a circle around Thingol so he had no choice but to make you Queen of Doriath in the event of his death?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” Galadriel exclaimed, in mock offence. Finrod turned his attention back to Celegorm. 

“And what was that at the end? I feel like someone just got murdered and nobody told me about it.”

Celegorm cast his eyes to the ground. Then they flicked around, and back down. “Finrod, my direct lord and commander is Maedhros. Fingon just interceded, overruling what Maedhros wants, to let me run away and shirk my duties.” 

Oh. “Oh fuck.”

“Exactly,” Celegorm agreed.

“Should I go after them?” Celegorm shook his head. Finrod sighed. “Poor Maedhros.”

“Poor Fingon,” Celegorm corrected. “I just put him in an impossible position, making him choose between his- between Maedhros and what’s better for our people as a whole. Everyone will be safer if I put as much distance as possible between myself and any Noldoran politics. That’s the same reason I cannot go looking for Aredhel’s son, much as I would like to. He would be less safe with me there, just as all of you are. Far from Doriath, and the Silmarils, and the crown, I will be able to do far less harm.” 

Poor Fingon indeed. “It would be selfish of Maedhros to hold that against him.” 

Seemingly determined to be Morgoth’s maia in the conversation, Celegorm corrected him again. “Maedhros is allowed to be irrational about these things sometimes. After everything, can you blame him for being a little overprotective?” 

Finrod resisted the urge to make fists. Sometimes, his hand would clench when he did that, and then he would be unable to move it for a couple hours or more. “What do you want me to say, Celegorm?” 

“The same thing everyone wants, Finrod. I want someone to tell me that everything will be alright.” 

When Celegorm and Galadriel left, two weeks later, Fingon and Maedhros still weren’t talking. Whatever Maglor had said to Fingon during their talk had resulted in a spectacular black eye, and little other progress. No matter what Celegorm said about the ethics of it all, Maglor had always been his eldest brother’s strongest defender. It was easy to imagine that in the heat of the moment, he had said something he deserved a royal smacking for. He was better with quips than was safe or reasonable. Finrod had asked, but neither of them had wanted to talk about it. Maglor would only say that he wished it had not happened.

Saying goodbye to Galadriel was unbelievably hard. They both cried a great deal. She made Maglor promise to look after him, and he made Celegorm promise to look after her. 

“You deserve the world,” he said to her, as she mounted her horse. “I don’t think even Morgoth could keep you from it. Eru knows nothing Atar or I ever said could. But be careful, alright? Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I can’t bear to lose you too.” 

She reached over, and ruffled his hair out of place. “I’ll be as safe as I can. I promise. Just- you do the same, alright? I still need my big brother.”

He reached up to grab her hand. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. Unless you need me. Then I’m going wherever you are.”

“I love you.” She squeezed his hand tightly.

“I love you too.”

He let her go then, because otherwise he never would have. 

They would almost certainly drop in at Himring on their way east, but even so, Maglor had not entrusted Celegorm with the keeping of the Silmaril. 

“I won’t give Celegorm Lúthien’s prize,” he had told Finrod, when asked. “If Maedhros wants it, he knows where it is, and who awaits him here.”

What he was really saying, Finrod thought later, as he went about his business, was that Celegrom was not the person Maedhros needed to make amends with. That honour belonged instead to Fingon. They had not spoken since Fingon had approved Celegorm’s decision. The fighting had sent at least one of them into a heavy depression, though Finrod rather thought that if he were with Maedhros, he would discover it was both. 

“Why don’t you always side with Maedhros in their disputes? I mean, I know you did in the beginning, but it now seems you’re on Fingon’s side.” Finrod asked him, that night. They were getting ready for bed, and Finrod had just set his prosthetic foot under the bed, where Maglor couldn’t trip on it if he woke up in the night.

Maglor paused in the middle of taking off his boots, and was quiet for a long moment before answering. “Because, in this instance, Maedhros is being too much like our father. Intellectually, he knows Fingon made the right decision. If only because it is what Celegorm wants and needs, it is the right decision. The politics make that even clearer. He is upset because Fingon did not consult him. But if Fingon had consulted him and disagreed, the outcome would have been the same. Maedhros knows he was wrong, but he wishes Fingon would have acted like he was right, and what Fingon did was such a violation of his trust that he feels justified in prolonging the fight.”

Finrod leant down and pulled Maglor’s other boot off before he could get into bed still wearing it. “I’m worried about them. About Fingon especially. He needs to learn to trust in his judgement as king, and this isn’t helping.”

Maglor, seemingly remembering the task at hand, started unbuttoning his vest. “They both need to learn that not every decision they make will decide the fate of all Arda. This decision only makes it worse. It is a bit far for a fraternal bond to talk for long to Maedhros, but if I get my harp out, I can give it a go tomorrow. If you talk to Fingon, maybe we can have this whole thing wrapped up by noon.” He threw the vest across the room where, in what Finrod suspected was more luck than intent, it landed over the back of the chair. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“Discuss?” Finrod said, allowing his voice to sink lower into his throat. “No, nothing I wanted to discuss.”

He very generously proceeded to assist Maglor in removing the rest of his clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grey jays, or the Canada jay are known to engage in cooperative breeding (i.e., a third, juvenile, bird assists the mated pair). They’re also associated with trickster figures in some native american mythology. This second fact doesn’t have any bearing on the story, I just think it’s a notable piece of bird trivia.


	8. Jackdaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod and Maglor meddle in the relationships of others, and Finrod finds a purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW IN ENDNOTES: there’s spoilers in there so, but it’s things that are a) definitely not worse than anything in the Silmarillion and b) still totally merits a warning. There is some relationship stuff, but nothing too serious, and all relationships are resolved.

As it resolved, there was no need for Finrod to go find Fingon the next day, because Fingon came to him. 

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, and then burst into tears. It was upsetting, watching someone like Fingon completely break down. Sort of like watching your parents cry. 

Finrod pulled him close, and let him cry into his shoulder. “You’re already doing it, Fingon. You are. I’ve seen it myself.” He stroked Fingon’s hair. 

Fingon cried harder. Viciously, Finrod thought, Maedhros Fëanorion, I hope Maglor tears a strip off you for this. 

“You are a good king, and a good person,” Finrod told him. “I can show you, if you want.”

Their connection had not been that strong, before Sauron. Before Finrod had been unmade. But it was strong now, a bond of kinship and friendship. As close as they were, it was no hardship to show Fingon to himself. Brave and loved. Kind and treasured. He showed Fingon how much he mattered, to all of them, and then he let him cry himself silent. Sometimes, it was necessary to cry. 

“I can’t do this alone,” he whispered when he was done, voice hoarse. “I need help, but Maedhros can’t be here. He can’t give it to me. None of the Fëanorions can. They renounced the crown. They can only help as soldiers or as private citizens. And Turgon is- well, I’m glad he’s alive, but frankly he’s been a terrible heir and Gil-galad is a baby.”

Finrod was talking before he even had a chance to think it through. “Make me your heir.”

Fingon pulled back to stare at him. “What?”

“Turgon’s been gone for years. Nobody will think it odd if you remove him from the line of succession. If he minds, he can come here and say so. But with Turgon and Idril gone, and Maeglin still missing presumed dead- though he is not- I’m your next legal heir until Gil-galad comes of age. I cannot travel or make war as you did for your father, but the day to day operations, holding court and the like-”

Fingon’s face brightened immeasurably. “You would want to do this? I thought you would go back to Nargothrond, or, you know, with Maglor.”

“You aren’t the only one with a duty to these people, Fingon.”

“No,” Fingon said, shaking his head. “I’m not.”

He left soon after, and didn’t show up for dinner. “Whatever you did,” Maglor said, “it worked. By the time I spoke to Maedhros, he and Fingon were already busy patching things up.”

Finrod shrugged. “All I did was tell him to take Turgon out of the line of succession. Make me crown prince until Gil-galad is old enough to do it.”

He spooned the soup, which seemed to contain mostly onions, into his mouth. Maglor swore under his breath. “Fuck, that’s brilliant.”

“I didn’t think it was that brilliant.”

Maglor ripped off a piece of bread and said, “no, see, what’s brilliant is that it means that Fingon can leave. Go be with Maedhros, or see his kid, or something. Because if he left anyone else in charge, he would be abandoning his station. But his heir? That’s different. If something terrible were to happen, you might be High King in your own right someday. They have to respect you. And it solidifies Galadriel’s claim as Thingol’s heir, because you can’t inherit both thrones. They’d never allow it.”

“Well,” Finrod said, “apparently it was more brilliant than I had anticipated.” 

Maglor smiled. “It’s almost a relief to know you hadn’t considered every dimension. As your partner, I was feeling somewhat overmatched.” 

That night, Fingon came to them. He looked better already, his hair clean and hanging loose around his shoulders. 

“I thought you were… busy,” Maglor said, with a suggestive pause.

Fingon rolled his eyes. “Not at the moment, no.” His tone softened. “We just wanted to thank you. It’s- it’s not easy. You know that. But it means a great deal to both of us to have you here, and supporting me. Maglor, Maedhros wanted me to tell you that you’re out of a job. When Curufin and Edhellos turn up, he’s going to ask Curufin to help him with managing Himring.”

“If you’re sure?” Maglor didn’t seem sure. His voice was filled with trepidation. 

“I am,” Fingon-Maedhros said. 

Maglor looked down at his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you would understand. You’re like our father, in this respect. You only ever loved once. I wasn’t sure-”

He cut himself off, voice cracking. Finrod reached out and squeezed his hand. Maglor squeezed back, tightly. Fingon slid across the room, and put his arms around Maglor. Or, well, perhaps that was more Maedhros. 

“I love you,” Maedhros said, gently, “you don’t deserve to be alone, Maglor. If you make each other happy, who am I to say you shouldn’t? I mean, the Beorlings think relationships between the same sex are immoral, and the Haladin only condone them for women. Right, Finrod?”

Finrod started at the sound of his own name. “I think so.”

Maedhros pressed Fingon’s forehead to Maglor’s. “Treat each other right, and treat Celumë and Amarië right, and we won’t have any problems.” He pulled away, and looked at Finrod. There was something inexpressibly Maedhros in the expression. “If you hurt him, we’re going to have a problem, heir or not.”

Finrod swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat, and nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

Fingon’s lips curled up in amusement. “If you’re going to be his heir, you can drop all the titles, High Prince of the Noldor.”

Finrod flushed. “I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros added, voice softer, “for looking out for him.”

Then he was gone, and it was only Fingon again. He shook off the posture Maedhros had adopted in his body, and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Are you really sure about becoming the heir? I’ve lasted this long, and I would not choose to do it again, if I felt it was a duty I could shirk.”

Finrod rather thought that Fingon wouldn’t have shirked the duty unless someone else had actively wanted to do it. “I’m sure. After all you and Maedhros have given for those of us who lived further south, it’s the least I can do.”

Fingon made the official announcement inside of a week, and they settled into a steady rhythm. Fingon had spent centuries as the crown prince, and he knew well how to make the second most unpleasant position in Arda as pleasant as possible. This mostly involved the maximum amount of delegating and assistants. Finrod had been a King before, and his own father’s heir, but the new role was still more than he had been prepared for. 

It was all Finwë’s fault, really. He had structured the role of crown prince for Fëanor in such a baffling, archaic and unpleasant way that not even Fëanor alone had been sufficient to fulfill it. If he had been thinking ahead, he would have planned a division of powers between all his children, but Finwë had not been known for managing his children well. Consequently, each of the next successive kings had been forced to have one heir, with all the power, who could feel undermined and judged when other powers were delighted to other people. Fingon had somewhat broken the system by having no heir to speak of, Gil being a baby and Turgon being a ghost, but with Finrod in position, things quickly returned to normal. 

“Has it always been this bad?” He asked Maglor, plaintively. He was lying back on their bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Maglor laughed in his face. “This bad? Please. Imagine worse. Abdicating was the nicest thing Maedhros ever did for me. Being his heir was terrible.” 

It probably had been worse, but Finrod spent plenty of those first two weeks of near-kingship feeling a great deal of self-pity. The only saving grace, really, was how happy it had made Fingon. He was smiling more, and clearly getting more sleep. His joy was contagious. By the third week, Finrod found himself almost at peace in the role, even though it was hard. 

There was an easiness to the rhythm of duty. Finrod could wake each morning, Maglor by his side, and know that he would find the day’s papers in his office waiting for him, and hold audiences two afternoons a week, with standard meetings on four more afternoons. Military, finance, Noldorin affairs, and diplomacy. Fingon attended the same meetings, for now, but was already making motions to leave Noldorin affairs and all non-Fëanorion diplomatic efforts in Finrod’s hands. Finrod thought, oddly enough, that he was looking forward to taking the responsibility on his own. It was good to know someone had faith in you. 

Fingon’s advisers welcomed Finrod easily enough. They consisted, essentially, of Erestor, Maedhros (in absentia, represented, supposedly, by Maglor), the Lord of Dor-lómin (also in absentia, represented by his younger brother Huor, the elder having recently had a second child), Maendes, who represented the people of the City of Barad Eithel, and Corwen, a former Lady of Tirion and financial scholar. When she was present, Edhellos also, supposedly, had a seat, but if she had ever taken it, none of the counsellors would attest to it. They were, by in large, a friendly bunch, and many of them had served on the same council under Fingolfin. Aside from the lord of Dor-lómin and Edhellos’s theoretical presence, Maendes was the only newcomer. 

“It’s an odd position,” Maendes had told Finrod, the first time they’d been alone. “We’re very proper in some ways, of course, and have to be. The duty we hold is too great for us to not take it seriously. And yet, we’re remarkably improper too. I’ve seen things in my time in this position that I never would have expected. At first, I thought it was because Fingon was new to the kingship, but Corwen tells me that Fingolfin’s council was a sort of brotherhood- sisterhood- too, and she would know. Her mother advised Finwë.”

Finrod liked her, and by the end of the third week, he would have been pleased to count not only Maendes as his friend, but also Erestor, Corwen, and possibly young Huor. 

In the fourth week, Finrod woke screaming, and he didn’t know why. Maglor wasn’t screaming, but he was crying hysterically, tears streaming down his face. Feeling disoriented, Finrod tried to catalogue what had happened. Galadriel and Celegorm were both alive. Turgon was alive. Orodreth was alive, and seemed to be sleeping calmly, which suggested Celebrimbor and the rest of Nargothrond were fine. That meant- 

Curufin was gone. Not closed off. Not too far. Just- gone. Finrod made a pained noise that went beyond that of feeling, like a knife to the gut. No. Eru. Not now. Not after everything. 

Fingon burst through their door without knocking. His eyes were wild and afraid. “I can’t reach Maedhros. He’s inconsolable- what’s happening?”

“Curufin,” Finrod said, because he couldn’t say anything more.

Fingon sat down hard on the floor. “Aulë, speak for him. Remember your friends.”

Finrod got the sense that he was saying the words more from habit than because they were what he meant. He needed something to do. Anything to do. Finrod felt just the same.

Orodreth! It took something out of him to shout it, but it did succeed in waking the elf in question. Celebrimbor, now! 

He let the connection go, and sagged back in bed. Celebrimbor would have felt it, just the same as they had, even though he was further away. He was Curufin’s son, after all. They had been incredibly close.

Maglor fisted his hands in the blankets and lifted them up to bury his face. 

“No,” he mumbled, into the cloth. “No. No.”

Finrod wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Maglor released the blankets, burying his face in Finrod’s shoulder instead. He shook, heavily, gasping for breath.

Fingon was still sitting on the floor, speaking quietly to himself. Or. Well, probably to Maedhros. His arms wrapped around his legs, he rocked back and forth. It was so odd to watch him grieve for Curufin, who he had never loved, had never liked. In some ways, it made Finrod angry. He wanted to grab Fingon by his ears and say, ‘why do you always weep when I am grieving?’ But that was unfair. Fingon might not have loved Curufin, but Maedhros had. Maedhros had, and Fingon loved him. That was enough. He did not deserve to be forced to justify himself to Finrod. 

Suddenly, Fingon sat up. “Edhellos,” he said, and then softer, “shh. Shh shhh shh.”

“Fuck,” Finrod said. And then, thinking about it, “she can’t be dead. Orodreth would have known, and I had to wake him to go check on Celebrimbor.”

“I should never have let them go,” Fingon murmured. “I should have been looking after them. I should-”

“No!” Maglor snapped, somewhat harshly. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. We’ve done enough blaming ourselves. We all have.”

“It’s my responsibility.”

“Shut up and come here,” Finrod said, and held out his hand until Fingon took it, and allowed himself to be pulled into their arms. 

They held each other together as best they could, as minutes turned to hours turned to days. Fingon took the lead for the first few days, shutting most of his connection with Maedhros so he could focus on ruling while Finrod and Maglor grieved. Then, because Maedhros needed him, Finrod spent the next three days on the throne in his place, so Fingon could curl up on his bed and cry for Maedhros. This was enough time for Maglor to enter the phase of his grieving where he could not bear to be alone with his thoughts, and so he took over the military and tactical part of the kingship. Fingon, drying his face, took back the public part of the duty, and Finrod recused himself to managing the menial paperwork and decision making that was the truth of most kingship. Between the three of them, they ruled the Noldor, and two of them did their best to make sure those of their people in Himring kept their ruler too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Canonical character death in non-canonical way (NOT Finrod, Maglor, Maedhros or Fingon)
> 
> The Jackdaw is an omen, interpreted differently in many cultures as bringing: rain, tragedy, death, or war.


	9. Bush Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth will out, in the death of Curufinwë Curufinwion, and in a case of mistaken identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon-typical depictions of the aftermath of torture and grief.

Fingon only received half an hour’s warning that Edhellos was coming. Finrod and Maglor, for their sins, received none at all.

“A thousand curses upon you Arafinwians and your cryptic nonsense,” Fingon complained. “All she said was to ‘summon every healer you know’ because ‘you’ll need them.’ Whatever that means.” 

Maglor’s hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his sword. “I see two options. Either someone is injured, or they’re going to be. I’ll call the guard, on the off chance it’s the second, and I’ll ride out to meet her so any threat does not get too close to the castle without warning. Call everyone within the walls, and summon every healer. If Edhellos says we’ll need them-”

“Then we’ll need them,” Finrod agreed. 

Finrod knew he had to stay within the walls, but nobody could have stopped him from climbing atop them with a crossbow. From there, he watched Maglor ride into the distance, to meet the mass of figures- two riding, the rest walking- who came into view. 

“Please,” Fingon murmured, under his breath. “Please, please, please.” His bow was strung and a full quiver sat at his feet. Finrod wondered which Vala he thought would heed him. But then, it was Fingon. If the Valar were still listening to any of the Noldor, it was him.

Maglor pulled up dead. To Finrod’s mind, he sent an all clear. Fingon must have received the same. They both relaxed, flooded with relief to know that Maedhros would not lose another brother that day.

Who are they? Finrod asked, setting down the crossbow. 

Maglor’s mind hummed with thinly veiled glee. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

But it’s good? 

Maedhros is going to be so fucking proud of Curufin for this. 

Fingon ordered the gates to be thrown open, and sent out the guards with strict orders not to kill anyone. He joined them soon after, riding out with no explanation given. Finrod wished desperately to ride out with them, but instead he stayed on the walls and watched guards helping the strangers onto their horses to ease the rest of the journey, relaying messages to and from healers. 

“What’s happening?” Finrod called down to one of the first guards to return with a passenger riding in front of her. 

She twisted around to look up at him, careful not to jostle the young ellon in front of her. “Would you like a ride back out, Prince Finrod?” 

A pox on dignity. “Yes, I would. Thank you.” He started the slow process of climbing carefully down the steep stone stairs. 

Fingon, Maglor, Edhellos and two other elves were standing in a circle conversing quietly when Finrod came upon them. The ellon had a strip of fabric tied over his eyes, while the elleth’s ironic grin revealed a half dozen missing teeth, and her right arm ended just above the elbow. 

Finrod made his way carefully over the uneven ground to stand in the circle with them. 

“My heir has just joined us,” Fingon narrated conversationally for the ellon. He gave a nod of acknowledgement in Fingon’s general direction, and his shoulder-length brown hair fell across his face like the closing of a curtain.

“What’s going on?” Finrod asked. “Edhellos, who are all these people?” 

She grinned. “Dúlinnien, would you like to introduce yourself?”

Dúlinnien, apparently, said, “we took a vote, and decided to call ourselves the Free Elves of Beleriand. We’ve just come south, so forgive our ill dress. It is all the fashion up north.”

Maglor gave an odd cough, as if he was trying to disguise a laugh. Dúlinnien looked very flattered to have amused him with her sarcasm. 

“It was Curufin’s idea,” Edhellos explained. “He originally wanted to try for a silmaril, but he decided that if he was Melkor, a theft would make him focus all his security on his person. So, if all the security was focused on Melkor’s person, that meant-”

“You orchestrated an escape,” Finrod whispered. He looked around the assembled crowd again. Every single one of them, elleth and ellon, from an ancient bearded laiquendi to an actual baby was marked as a thrall. No wonder Edhellos had demanded healers. They were scarred, burned, bruised and branded. They carried each other, exhausted. A few carried weapons fashioned from the most meagre tools, or stolen from orcs. At a glance, the head count was more than a couple hundred, but they were huddled close together, and it could easily have been more. 

Dúlinnien nodded. “They did. They routed the first set of guards, and released enough of us that we could help, but someone had to stay and fight so we could get the children out.”

Elves always had to choose to have children. Finrod wondered what would make someone choose to bring a child into a place like that. He had been unsure about wanting to have children in Valinor, but to do so here certainly made him pause, let alone in a place like that. And yet, watching, he could see that these children had been protected to the best of their parents’ abilities. Or, well, perhaps parents was the wrong word, for with every child, there seemed to be at least six grown elves, who were among the best armed in the group. Even now, in the safest place any of those children had ever been, they were defended and supported. Not even Finwë could have said the same about all his children. 

“We couldn’t get his body,” Edhellos was saying to Maglor, when Finrod focused back in. “I’m sorry. I know you would have wanted to bury him properly, and Eru knows he more than deserved as much. I’m sure he’s dead, though, and not just cut off by dark magics. He said- he said that whatever happened in there, Morgoth would not have him alive.”

“Poor Celebrimbor,” murmured the ellon. It was the first thing he’d said in the whole conversation. Finrod hadn’t recognized his face, especially not so hidden, but that voice was just the same. 

“Gelmir?” Gelmir turned his face to approximately where Finrod was standing. And, yes, it was him. Finrod knew the nervous posture, awkward and wavering like a willow in a windstorm. “Your brother is going to be so fucking glad to see you.”

He gave a sad smile. “Curufin said something similar. But we didn’t have much time to talk. How is he?”

In the end, Finrod spent almost an hour filling Gelmir in on everything that had happened in Nargothrond since his capture more than a decade before, up to Beren’s arrival and Finrod’s own, briefer, captivity. In turn, Gelmir explained that he and Dúlinnien had been elected as the representatives of the Free Elves, she for those who were born in captivity or had been captured so long ago everyone and everything they knew in the outside was gone, and he for those born free, and captured recently. 

“Where will you go?” Finrod asked him. Gelmir shrugged. 

“I know many of my people will want to try and return to the homes they came from. Thingol may or may not take his back, but we can certainly return everyone to Hithlum- we already have- and to Nargothrond and Himring. But there will also be many who want to stay together, if their homes are gone, or if they do not feel like home anymore. Though of course, those who followed Aegnor and Angrod may want to follow you.

He no longer seemed to bother with titles. Then, after what he had been through, Finrod would not have bothered with them either. “I’m not king of Nargothrond anymore, Gelmir. Orodreth is.”

It took Gelmir a couple tries to grab him by the arm, but he got there. “Did I say they would want to follow the King of Nargothrond? Orodreth will have a great deal of loyalty from them, aye, being Edhellos and Angrod’s son. But those who saw you here today- they know now that you’re one of us. And for that, they’ll follow you anywhere. Maedhros too. Any of them who can stand the sight of a Fëanorion, that is. I think Himring is where Dúlinnien would go, if she did not have a duty to those of us who can’t swing a sword.”

“Maedhros would take those who couldn’t swing a sword too,” Finrod said, because it was true. “He couldn’t, when he founded Himring. But regardless, that was not the answer to the question I asked. Where will you go?”

He loosened his grip on Finrod’s arm. “I have a duty to make sure everyone is settled, first. That they know where they are going and have the resources to get there. But after that, I think I want to go home. I miss my family. Gwindor, my father- and if Finduilas can keep her hands off Gwindor for a little while longer, I wouldn’t mind being there for the wedding.”

“That’s good,” Finrod said, thinking he was finished, but he wasn’t.

“And it’s more than that. I need to see Celebrimbor- well, you know, not see, but- to talk to him. We only met a few times, but his father died saving us, saving me. If there’s anything I can do to repay him, I want to.”

“He won’t want anything from you,” Finrod told him, “Celebrimbor isn’t the sort of person to expect a debt for something like this.”

Gelmir, bless him, blushed red as a rose.

“Oh, I see. Not so much out of the goodness of your heart, then, is it?”

While Gelmir tried and failed to stutter his way through an excuse, Finrod could not help but laugh. “Maybe don’t begin flirting with the line about his recently dead father.”

Gelmir, if it were possible, turned redder still. “I won’t.”

In some ways, knowing the truth of the thing made it easier. Now, Finrod could grieve Curufin, who died doing the honorable thing, instead of just Curufin, who died. In other ways, knowing that Curufin had chosen his fate made it harder. Maedhros, in particular, seemed to be having trouble dealing with that aspect of the thing, which was why Finrod ended up making what would resolve to be one of the best decisions of his adult life. He came to the realization of what he had to do in the middle of a meeting coordinating where the survivors would go, and how. 

He cut Maglor off in the middle of a long winded speech to turn to Fingon and say, “go with them.” 

Everyone but Gelmir stared. Fingon said, “excuse me?”

“There’s no one to lead the party going east, to Himring and on to meet with Galadriel and Celegorm’s people? Well, I cannot go, given my leg, and Erestor is better at paperwork than you, and Maglor is a Fëanorion. Someone will need to communicate with Thingol, to convince him to take his people back. Who better than our king? Well, me, obviously, but I’ve just said I can’t go.”

Thingol was no more likely to talk to Fingon than to Maglor, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Maedhros and Fingon needed to see each other, and with this excuse, Finrod could give them the chance.

“I should stay here,” Maglor added, “because this is where we should build a memorial to Curufin, even if we don’t have his body. As his brother, I need to be here while that happens.”

Erestor nodded solemnly. “It would be ideal for you to offer condolences in person, since Lord Maedhros was once our king.”

Poor Fingon, exhausted and relieved, broke down crying right in the middle of the council.

“Well,” Edhellos told Gelmir, “now you’re really part of the family.”

And that was how Finrod spent six months as High King of the Noldor. The first order of business, of course, was to settle all those who hadn’t gone with Fingon, a group who still numbered almost two hundred elves. They were given blanket permission to stay in any Noldorin realm of their choice, and so many chose to remain, under Dúlinnien. Some others wanted to go south, to Nargothrond, or to return to Círdan’s guidance, if that had been their original providence. It was a safer road than that to Himring, and one that required far less guidance. But still, Finrod assembled a team of a dozen soldiers to go with them, and insisted on Edhellos taking charge of the thing. Technically, nobody had even officially informed Celebrimbor that he had inherited two lordships, and so they would do this, and, Finrod hoped, bring Celebrimbor back when they returned. He needed to come, if only for a while, so he could approve a permanent monument to his father, swear allegiance as a lord in his own right, and, Finrod hoped, come to terms with the things Curufin had done, good and bad. 

He then spent the next three weeks bickering ceaselessly with Thingol. Perhaps this was cruel; he was grieving. But the look on Galadriel’s face as she had described her experiences in Doriath stayed with him, and made him wary of the king. Unsurprisingly, Thingol did not meet with Fingon. Surprisingly, he finally agreed that any of the Free Elves could come to Doriath, regardless of their original providence, as long as they swore their only allegiance to him. Only a few decided to take advantage of this, but those who did seemed grateful enough that it made the effort more than worth it. 

While all this was happening, Maglor designed a temporary monument to Curufin, to remain until Celebrimbor decided what he wanted instead. It was simple. A slab of solid stone, with the Fëanorion star on it, and words to Maglor’s specifications:  
****  
Curufinwë Atarinkë  
Son of Curufinwë Fëanáro and Nerdanel Mahtaniel  
Father, Brother, Friend  
Lord and Smith of the Noldor  
  
“He’d be amused to know that we challenged Thingol’s ban for him,” Finrod said, softly. He reached over and took Maglor’s hand. Maglor squeezed his in turn, and then let go. 

“I’m done here, for now. But you should say goodbye. Will you be alright here on your own?” 

Finrod nodded. “Someone would have to be mad to attack the High King this close to Barad Eithel. And in case of emergencies, I am not unarmed.” He showed Maglor his dagger. 

“If you’re sure,” Maglor agreed, and kissed him. 

“I’m sure. Just- give me a couple hours. Alright?” 

“Alright.” Maglor kissed him again, and set off down the road humming. They were far enough from Barad Eithel. The elves did not bury their dead where they lived, even if they had nothing left to bury. 

Finrod lowered himself carefully until he was sitting in front of the grave, like a child cross-legged on the floor. “Hello Curvo, you stubborn bastard. You just had to have the last word, didn’t you? Couldn’t allow yourself to be beaten by a mortal? Well, you did it! You made yourself a hero to those people, and a martyr for the rest of us. I hope you’re proud of yourself, making Celebrimbor an orphan.”

It was exhausting, to have held on to the anger for so long. He released it like a bird, caught in his hands and slicing through the air with its wings as it sought freedom. “I hate you! You hear me? I hate you. You didn’t even have the courage to say goodbye, and I hate you, you petty bastard. You couldn’t even stand to see anyone else be the centre of attention, could you?”

In his heart, he knew that wasn’t true. He didn’t hate Curufin, and he knew that it had been courage, not cowardice, that had driven him in the end. He curled in on himself and cried angry tears until he had driven himself to silence. It was then that he heard the voices approaching from the North. There were at least two of them, one male and the other female. If they were going towards Barad Eithel from the North, there were only so many places they could have come from. He grabbed his cane, and struggled to his feet. Weighing his options, he drew the dagger, and moved so Curufin’s grave would be between him and the strangers. 

They saw him almost the instant he saw them, but without the warning he’d had. They were both cloaked in grey, their faces hidden. One had an arrow pointed at Finrod before he could even open his mouth, and the other went for a sword. 

“If you shoot me,” Finrod said, “I can probably alert the guards before dying. They’ll come for you and will have your heads, for killing their king.” 

“Drop the knife,” the female said; she was holding the bow with the practice of a master. Finrod did, and proactively let go of his cane, knowing he had just released any marginal chance of fleeing. But he also alerted Maglor. 

Two strangers. Coming from the North. Armed. They don’t look like orcs, but appearances can be deceiving.

“Good,” she said. There was something about that voice. “Now drop the illusion. Show us who you really are.” 

“This is who I really am,” Finrod told them. Maglor was on his way. 

“Liar!” The other one exclaimed. “The real Felagund is dead.” 

That voice was easier to place. “And so is the real Beren, and he knew I was alive. If this is meant to be revenge, it’s not going to work. You can tell your master that he’s the laughing stock of every elven realm. Can’t keep his jewels. Can’t keep his prisoners.” He shook his head at them, tsk-tsking sarcastically.

The thing that sounded like Beren threw its hood back. It was jarring, seeing his face, a little older, a little more tired, but so realistic. Finrod wished, rather madly, that he hadn’t dropped the knife. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had still been holding it- thrown it at the thing? It wasn’t even a throwing knife- but at least then he would have felt some semblance of control. Something. Anything.

Show me what’s happening, Maglor said, in the back of his mind. I don’t want to ride into this unaware. 

Finrod showed him. I don’t know what kind of trick this is, but I don’t like it. 

Maglor considered. Play along. Try to prove your identity to them. And try to get them to prove the same. It’ll be a good distraction. I won’t show myself unless I think I can do it in such a way as to have you walk away unharmed. 

“You may look like him,” Finrod acknowledged, “but my friend would never have threatened an unarmed cripple at mourning.”

“Unarmed?” Asked the female, presumably pretending to be Lúthien. 

“Cripple?” Asked the Beren-thing.

“Mourning?” Asked the Lúthien-thing. 

Finrod resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, technically armed, but what was I going to do with a knife anyways? Yes, cripple. You may have missed the bit of the story with the pack of wolves, but as the real Beren would have known, I was almost eaten alive. And, yes, mourning. It’s been a rough year. Did you not notice the grave stone?”

“I am the real Beren,” complained the Beren-thing. 

“Oh, yeah, and I’m sure that she’s the real Lúthien, too.”

“Beren,” the Lúthien-thing said, “would you push my hood back, please?” He did. 

Finrod gave a sarcastic snort of laughter. “Oh, please. You aren’t Lúthien. Why, I’m not sure you’re even an elf.”

Granted, she did bear a great resemblance to his cousin, but there was something intangibly… less so about her. 

“I watched you die,” Beren said. 

Finrod raised an eyebrow at him. “Beren left me for dead. Which he knew about. Because we told the Doriathrim, which I know because Galadriel got the message. I refuse to believe that Melian and Thingol-”

He cut himself off. Because he could believe that Thingol would have kept Finrod’s survival from Lúthien, to stop her from leaving again, and in truth neither had lived long after their return to Doriath. Had Galadriel even seen them? Why would Morgoth make that part of the fiction? And that made him wonder.

“You say you’re the real Beren? The real Lúthien? Prove it.”

“Prove you’re the real Finrod,” Lúthien, possibly, returned. 

Finrod closed his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t shoot him while he was distracted, and thought about how. Proving himself to Beren without revealing information he would need Beren to use to prove himself in turn would be hard. But proving himself to Lúthien was a whole different kettle of fish.

“When you were last in Doriath, my sister was there. You probably knew her as Galadriel, but her original name is Artanis Nerwen. She hates it, has her whole life. She chose to come to Beleriand because she wanted to be here. She had no loyalty to Fëanor; she never liked him. But she came here because she is a remarkably curious person. I convinced her to stay in Doriath, where it was safe, on the pretense she could learn from your mother. But really I just wanted to protect her. That was wrong. It was her choice. She acts proper, but she is daring and ambitious and brilliant, and dangerous.”

Lúthien aimed her bow towards the ground, but didn’t relax her grip. “You said she ‘was’ in Doriath. What do you mean by that?”

Finrod weighed his options, and made a choice. “She found your father predacious and unpleasant. I don’t think she’ll be wanting to go back any time soon. Frankly, I’m almost surprised you did. I mean, I understand you swore to get him a Silmaril, but he could have gotten it from the wolf himself. Did you really want to die for someone like that?”

Lúthien relaxed. “I see. Beren, prove you’re you.”

Beren gave her a look that somehow managed to convey ‘seriously?’ and ‘why me?’ and ‘rude’ and ‘how?’ Then he turned to Finrod and named every single one of their friends who Sauron had killed in the order that they’d died. It could have been a trick. It would have been information the enemy would have had, but-

“How are you here?”

He looked to Lúthien. She said, “I asked Mandos’s help. He gave it.” There was clearly more to that story, but she didn’t seem to feel like sharing. “We will not be sundered again.”

It was too good to be true, and yet, “I believe you.”

I believe them, he thought at Maglor. Don’t kill anyone. 

“What about your survival?” Beren asked. “I saw the wolf, I thought-”

“You thought I was dead. I know. I know you wouldn’t have left me to die alone. I must have lost consciousness for a while, but I woke up, and I knew I would need help, so I called out to anybody who might have been there. By the grace of the Valar Maglor, Fëanor’s son was close by. He saved me, and brought me here to Barad Eithel. So, for my sake, please don’t shoot him when he arrives.” 

Beren looked at Lúthien. Lúthien looked at Beren. “What a farce!” Beren exclaimed. 

Finrod blinked. “Excuse me?” 

Beren had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Felagund, we meant to go back and bury you, but Lúthien realized that another of Fëanor’s sons was proximate, and so we fled so he would not attempt to stop us as his brothers did.” 

Farce indeed. “Námo take us all for fools!” He let out a bark of laughter.

Beren and Lúthien made their way slowly closer. “So,” Lúthien began tentatively, “who died?” 

Maglor, could you give us a moment? 

If you’re sure you feel safe. 

I’m sure. 

Finrod gestured towards the grave, and then realized that neither of them could read Quenya. “Curufin died. I know you have good cause to hate him, but I would watch your tongues around here. He died as a hero to these people, saving many of them from their lives as thralls.”

Lúthien knelt down to trace the words she could not read, while Beren leaned over and passed Finrod’s cane and dagger back to him. “My father will not be happy.” 

“Frankly, Tinúviel, I could not care less what your father thinks of it. It is not for him. Curufinwë cared deeply about his name, his history and lineage. In death, he deserves to have them restored to him. He was Curufinwë Atarinkë, his father’s son, in all the best and worst ways. He was Curufinwë Telperinquar’s father. He was the fifth of seven brothers, and one of fifteen cousins, neither first nor last, but none the lesser for being in the middle. He was a smith of the Noldor, one of the greatest who ever lived. He was brave and foolish, generous and cruel. He died to save people he never even knew, for no reason other than that he could save them by doing so. There is nobility in fighting for the people you love, but I wonder if there is something more in giving of yourself for people you have no reason to know, no reason to care for.” 

“You weep for him,” Lúthien whispered, and moved her hand from the characters to the star above them. 

Finrod’s grip on his cane tightened. “I do. I would understand if you could not forgive me for that. Celegorm told me what they did, to you. And I know that Curufin was often wrong, and usually spoke harshly, and often was too willing to make selfish decisions. But I loved him anyways.”

Lúthien seemed to consider this. “I love my father. He tried to kill Beren, to own me, just as much as Curufin did. But with no oath to blame it on.” 

Beren reached down to lay a hand on her shoulder. To Finrod, he said, “we don’t always choose who we love. He was your friend long before this, and had fate been kinder, might have been your friend again.” 

“I missed you,” Finrod told him, and pulled Beren into a hug. Men, as a rule, were not so demonstrative as elves, but Finrod had lost him once, and would one day again. It needed to be said. 

Beren hugged him back. “I missed you too.” 

Lúthien said calmly, “are you going to tell your friend to stop lurking now?” 

This was a good question, and so Finrod summoned Maglor. He came on foot, horse following close by. Beside Lúthien, he knelt. 

“Princess,” he addressed her. “For the crimes of my brothers, I offer sincere apologies. For everything else, I may only offer my regrets for some things and my relief for others. I know your parents were quite distraught by your loss.” 

Lúthien folded her hands in her lap. “I accept your apology, but do not forgive.”

Maglor nodded solemnly. “I could not ask anything more.” He looked up at Finrod. “How much did you tell them about what happened between their deaths and now?” 

“Not much,” Beren replied. 

Maglor was a better storyteller than Finrod. He sat there, against his brother’s grave, and, unplanned and unaccompanied, wove the story of the intervening months. Of Galadriel’s defection, and the return of the silmaril to Fëanor’s house. Of Celegorm’s retiring from public life. Of the disappearance and death of Curufinwë Curufinwion. Of Finrod’s temporary assumption of the title of High King. There were gaps in the story, of his and Maglor’s relationship, and Fingon and Maedhros’s marriage. With that detail in particular missing, their actions made little to no sense, and Lúthien looked at them very oddly.

“You’re good at this,” she told him, after. 

Maglor was easily flattered. “Thank you. I may not have your illustrious parentage, but I get by.” 

Finrod opened his mouth to say, ‘don’t let Curufin hear you talking like that’, and then closed it again. 

“We should go,” he said. “I assume you’ll be wanting to spend the night with us.”

Lúthien smiled at him. “That would be lovely, Felagund. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stresemann’s bush crow is a bird native to Ethiopia. Although it is currently considered a member of the family Corvidae, this may be (if you will), a case of mistaken identity.
> 
> God I was so nervous about this chapter idk why I just was.


	10. Magpie-jays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends, family, plans and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think there are any relevant CWs here, please tell me if I’ve missed something.

Neither Lúthien nor Beren seemed particularly enthused by the idea of returning to Doriath. And so, they were adopted as additional members of the bizarre family that comprised the government in Barad Eithel. Well, for Finrod, both had already been family, but Maglor and Lúthien developed an unlikely and weird friendship too.

“He’s not what we expected,” Beren told Finrod, who was spending half his energy looking over Maglor’s plans for the patrol roster in the next month. 

“Fëanor’s sons rarely are.” 

“Curufin and Celegorm were.” 

Maglor had put Egleril and Raweth on patrol together. That would never do. They’d had an ill-advised and recently terminated affair. He made a note of it. 

“See, you say that, but could you have predicted that either would have reacted to my injury and your death in the way they did? I doubt it. The other five are just as bad. It’s unlikely you’ll ever meet Caranthir or Amrod and Amras- they’re identical twins, and somehow even less alike than the rest of the siblings. But you might well meet Maedhros at some point. Maedhros is the kind of person who had to be carried out of Angband, and before he could walk, had fundamentally restructured the Noldorin government in a way that created long lasting internal peace and stability at cost to Maedhros himself. He’s quite mad, and, on a practical level, the most brilliant of the lot. But he’s also a remarkably gentle soul. You’d be surprised by it the more you got to know him. And then of course there is Maglor. Maglor is as you’ve known him, but he’s also one of the fiercest of all Noldorin warriors. He’s an artist, and a poet, and a killer. Whichever you expected, the other is a surprise.” 

Beren considered this. “You seem to care greatly for him.”

Finrod hated lying, even by omission. “I do.” 

There was a long silence before Beren said solemnly, “Lúthien thinks the two of you are in some kind of romantic relationship.”

Lúthien had been raised an elf. Even a Doriathrim would lack the prejudices that made most mortals so unfriendly to those who loved their own sex. It would not have been hard for her to interpret what was between them in the way that it would have been hard for someone like Beren. 

“She’s right.” Beren said nothing. Finrod asked, “does that bother you?”

Beren looked down at his hands. “Should it bother me?”

“I don’t think so. But most of your kinsmen would disagree.”

He must have showed some of his warring emotions of his face. Beren reached out and placed one big hand on top of his. Generally, mortals had wider, rougher hands than their elven counterparts, and with Finrod’s missing fingers, Beren’s hand covered his easily.

“Most of my kinsmen would probably have disapproved of me marrying Lúthien. Her kinsmen, with you exempted, certainly disapprove of her marrying me. I’ve been dead. I know how quickly it comes. Life is too short to care about something so trivial. Everyone should take what happiness they can in the time they have.”

Once, not so long ago, Finrod had believed that it was better, for everyone, if men and elves did not love each other. If Aegnor and Andreth could have had the happiness of their memories, and not let that turn to sorrow through passing time. But now they were both dead, and he wondered. He wondered if he had hurt Andreth in saying so. He wondered if Aegnor would have been happier to remember more, even if those memories had included Andreth’s death. He wondered. Lúthien and Beren certainly seemed happy enough.

“Maglor is married. To someone who isn’t me.” 

Beren squeezes his hand gently. “I know. He talks about her, sometimes. But he also talks about the fact that she’s dead. It is unfathomable to me, this elven custom that one’s happiness should end and begin with a single love. I adore Lúthien beyond the bounds of this world. I do. But I never would have asked her to roll over and never feel joy again.”

Finrod pulled his hands away. “That’s how it is though, for elves. We’re supposed to love once, brilliantly, and then our souls are supposed to be tied to that person, live or die. In a thousand years, they’ll still sing ballads about what Lúthien did. She was the perfect elven wife, in dying with you.”

“A pox on that!” Beren snapped, angrily. “Giving up, when faced with loss, doesn’t make you right. Fighting on is right. What makes Lúthien perfect is that she never, ever gives up, even when faced with impossible odds.”

It was actually kind-of cute that Beren agreed with the basic premise that Lúthien was perfect, and only questioned the dimensions in which her perfection was measured. Finrod hoped that his love made her happy. Hers certainly did for him.

“Not for elves.”

“Well, the it’s a good thing you get on very well with Eru’s lesser children. Because, and I say this with love, elves are stupid and wrong.”

Finrod couldn’t help but smile a little at that. “So, you’ll adopt me as one of your own?”

Beren reached over, and took his hand again. “Brothers.”

“Brothers.”

And he and Lúthien stayed, and stayed, and stayed. Finrod got the distinct sense that they were both avoiding her father, but was more than happy to aid and abet them in the endeavour, but for the fact that they deserved more than this. They were powerful, remarkable people. They could have been kings. All they needed was a kingdom. The same went double for Dúlinnien. She was a king if Finrod had ever known one. 

The only person Finrod seemed to know who didn’t need a kingdom or a title was Edhellos, who brought Celebrimbor, Gwindor, and Finduilas with her when she returned from Nargothrond. It was a happy reunion, if marred by grief for those with whom they could never reunite. 

Gwindor threw himself on his brother almost the second they arrive, and both of them cried like children. Finrod almost cried watching them, and did cry, when Finduilas hugged him. Celebrimbor, for his part, did not cry at all. That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, he confided in Maglor and Finrod. 

“I did all my crying in Nargothrond. First when I first felt it, and then again, when Edhellos told me why. I don’t think I’ll cry for the next year. Maybe longer. It’s like my whole heart is drained away.” 

“I know,” Maglor told him. He refilled all three of their wine glasses, shaking the very last drops out of the bottle.

Celebrimbor gave him a small smile. “And you know what it’s like when they leave you the titles too, huh?” 

Maglor laughed. “Curufin and Celegorm stopped properly being lords the second they moved to Nargothrond. All you need to do is redirect any complaints to Orodreth. Just be glad it’s not a crown.”

They both looked at Finrod. “Orodreth did just fine! And I paid my dues by taking this thing.” He waved his hand at the crown of the High King.

“I think that’s less paying your dues and more literally being cursed.” 

They all laughed at that. Then they sobered, remembering why they were there. Maglor raised his glass. “To Curufinwë Atarinkë. He was an idiot, and we loved him.”

They all drank. Afterwards, Celebrimbor said, “why do you think he did it? I mean- he wasn’t some principled person who would always have taken the chance to save people if he saw it. Why now? Why these people?”

Finrod wished he had an answer. Maglor said, “someday, we’ll be able to ask him. Until then- I think it’s important for us to remember that, for all we joked, your father was a person with a great many emotions and fears and hopes. He usually didn’t do things because they were right, but with an opportunity in his lap? To strike at Morgoth? To pay his moral debts? Who’s to say he didn’t choose the right thing in that moment, not because it was easy for him, but simply for the knowledge of its rightness.”

Finrod hoped that was true.

The monument Celebrimbor settled on was to be a set of Fëanorian lanterns, in a spiral pattern rising into the air, affixed on a near-invisible frame. He’d sketched the plans himself on his way from Nargothrond, and needed nothing but the forges in Barad Eithel to execute it. It painted a big target on the city, but no more than the crown did, and it was more than itself. 

“Hope,” Maglor said, trailing his fingers down Finrod’s chest. “He’s replacing sorrow with hope.”

“Curufin would be proud of him.” 

“Maybe,” Maglor agreed, “but I know we are. All of us.” 

Watching so many families reunite seemed to remind Lúthien what she actually liked about her family. She and Beren left, with the intention to visit Thingol and Melian, and then carry on to meet with Galadriel and Celeborn. Finrod hadn’t been sure if the plan was sound, but, apparently, it was the best idea Lúthien and Beren had. 

“I don’t believe Celegorm is a threat to me, and I’d like to build something new,” she told Finrod when they were the first two awake that last morning. “I want to build something better. I remember almost envying the Noldor the chance to do that, when they first came to Beleriand.” 

Finrod remembered those first cities. Then the thought clicked.

“Lúthien, I think you may have just solved a problem for me.”

“What problem?” 

“What to do with the Free Elves. Don’t misunderstand me, they are more than welcome in Barad Eithel, but Dúlinnien is a force to be reckoned with, and she doesn’t need someone like me or Fingon to tell her what to do. So, how to give her the freedom she deserves? Well, there’s a Noldorin kingdom sitting right next door, unoccupied.” 

Lúthien’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Vinyamar.” 

“Vinyamar. Dúlinnien, her people, Maybe some locals from here in Barad Eithel, a good number of mortals looking to be further from the front lines- it’s the start of another power in Beleriand.” Unaffiliated with the Noldorin crown, or with Thingol or Círdan. A free power. A free city, standing against Morgoth. 

“It must be falling apart, by now?” Lúthien wondered. 

Finrod shrugged. “It’ll need some work. Now, if only we had one of the best of the smiths of the Noldor right in Barad Eithel.”

Lúthien let out a peel of laughter. “Unaffiliated with the Noldorin crown, but being rebuilt by a Noldorin lord.”

Finrod cuffed her. “With the support of the Princess of Doriath?”

“Oh, certainly. But I’m not sure that makes it more unaffiliated. Maybe they’d just be affiliated with both.”

“Stop being so persnickety,” Finrod said, “and tell me what you really think.”

Lúthien laughed again. “What if being persnickety is what I really think?”

“Then say nothing at all. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

“My mother never taught me manners,” Lúthien told him, “I learned those from Uncle Elmo. That’s why I’m so remarkably put together. But as to what I really think- Finrod, I saw Angband. If you want to give people a chance to build their lives away from there, then I think you’re doing the right thing.”

“And independent or not?” Finrod pressed.

She shrugged. “As you like. Dúlinnien is more than competent, but I think there’s something to be said for the Noldorin structure, Kings and Lords supporting each other, giving aid when needed. Doriath is alone. We wouldn’t survive alone without Naneth. Vinyamar will need someone to support them, if it comes to that.” 

“You’re right. A treaty, maybe. Some token offer from them, troops in the event of a major battle or some such thing, in exchange for protection?” 

Reaching out to place her hand on his shoulder, Lúthien said, “I trust that you’ll do the right thing.”

As they left, Finrod gave Lúthien letters, to take to Galadriel and Celegorm for him. Maglor gave her something too, but refused to say what in front of anyone. It was only later that he opened the drawer where he’d been keeping the silmaril for months now, and showed Finrod the truth. 

“We talked about it, for a long time. The deal Galadriel made with Thingol was on the condition that Lúthien was dead. I don’t know if he’ll hold to the terms with her alive. So, I talked to her about it. She swore to me on Beren’s life that she’ll take it to Maedhros, as soon as she can. There’s significance in the giving, I think. My entrusting it to her, freely, as family, and her giving it to Maedhros. She could have ceremonially given it to me, too, but Maedhros is head of the house, and in carrying it for a time, it will really be hers, strengthening the value of the gesture. Giving it to me here, it wouldn’t have properly been hers first.”

“Can you even do that? I mean, with the oath-” He stopped mid-sentence. The Fëanorions didn’t like to talk about the oath directly if they could avoid it. 

Maglor sighed, and reached out to take his hand. With the purpose and solemnity of a coronation, he laid it on his own brow. “I’ve never shown you the oath, have I?”

No one had. “No.”

“Would you like to see it?’

“Yes,” Finrod whispered. It was such an intimate, private thing, and he wanted to know. He needed to know. 

Maglor reached out, and made their minds one. Together, they looked towards the darkest patches of Maglor’s memory, and, with two-one hand(s) touching-being, they entered the memory of the oath. Finrod cowered away from the heat in Fëanor’s eyes, but he could feel the pulsing thrum of anger, and satisfaction of saying the words, of knowing the murder of their grandfather, the violation of their home, would be avenged. Finrod/Maglor could remember what he had thought at the exact moment the idea had been suggested. ‘If it had been a different day, it could have been any one of us. He could have killed me. He could have killed Atar or Maitimo, or Celumë or Telperinquar- any of us.’

And then, with this context, Maglor withdrew the oath, and presented it to Finrod. In his mind, it was a small thing, a box no bigger than the palm of his hand, but so heavy. Finrod took it, cradling it close.

Can I open it?

I would rather you didn’t. Not while Lúthien has it, at least. No matter how small the risk, I will not take it. But later- well, I showed Celumë, and she said it didn’t make her want to run off and fight Morgoth, so I don’t see why not.

And this is all it is? You really keep it so under control?

Sorrow-amusement-irony. For now. It would be harder, but I know getting Morgoth’s isn’t reasonable at the moment, and the oath is all about family. The honour of our family. ‘Fëanor’s kin’. It couldn’t have made me fight Lúthien in this moment no matter what, but now I can say to it ‘no, never her, because the cousin of my partner is family, and I shared it with my family.’ 

Does this mean I suddenly have a very large number of brothers to worry about?

As though you weren’t worrying over them anyways.

They sat a while, on the edge of the bed; Maglor’s fingers traced the lines of Finrod’s palm. It was a mindlessly intimate gesture. Finrod, for his part, could not help but think on the strange circumstances that had turned this into his family.

“What if she decides to keep it?” Finrod couldn’t help but wonder. 

Maglor shook his head, as though the idea was ridiculous. “She won’t. I don’t think the beauty of the thing inspires her much.”

Maybe she, like Finrod, was looking for beauty elsewhere, in living things. Finrod placed one hand of the small of Maglor’s back, and the other just between his shoulder blades, and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two species of Magpie-jays, who commonly hybridize.
> 
> My update next week may be slightly delayed or at a weird time because I’m a wee bit busy. But it will happen. There will also be an early week Series of Unfortunate events fic, so, uh, stay tuned?


	11. Nutcrackers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward, gangly youths, schemes, and the passage of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings!!!!!!!

With Lúthien and Beren gone, Finrod and Maglor found themselves the only fulfilled couple in a sea of awkward, gangly youths who were dancing around each other. Even Gwindor and Finduilas, who were engaged to be married, had been in a tense place in their relationship with Gelmir gone. As they reunited, they acted as though they’d never been in love before. Gelmir and Celebrimbor were even worse. They were obviously lovers, but didn’t know it yet. Maglor was all for letting them sort it out themselves, but Finrod had no patience left to spare. 

“I’m going to talk to them,” Finrod said, and stretched his neck out. Maglor rolled over and groaned, burying his face in his own pillow for once. 

“As you like. I’ve done my share of romantic meddling for the year.”

“When did you do that?”

Maglor snorted. “Well, I seduced you, didn’t I?”

Finrod kissed his shoulder. “I prefer to think I seduced you.” 

“Go on believing that.”

Finrod intended to. He sat up, retrieved his foot from under the bed, and got to work.

“We met before he was captured,” Celebrimbor told Finrod, leaning up from where he stood on his ladder to affix a lantern near the very top of the crystalline structure. “I was visiting Nargothrond, and Gelmir was my guide. He was shy then. He’s still shy now, come to that. It’s a surprise to see someone who was barely able to meet my eyes suddenly able to stand before crowds and command them.”

As far as Finrod knew, Gelmir was not, nor had he ever been, particularly shy. Awkward, certainly. Shy? No. Except where Celebrimbor was involved. The advantage he had now was that sometimes, when he was working, Celebrimbor would forget to announce his presence, and Gelmir wouldn’t realize that he had something to be embarrassed about. But Finrod could understand why. Celebrimbor had the same classical Noldorin good looks as his father and grandfather before him, but with a kinder demeanour. He also had the remarkably attractive quality of being a very attentive listener.

Finduilas was a good listener too. Her problem, Finrod reflected, was that she’d stopped focusing on everything other than her renewed relationship with Gwindor. This, Finrod decided, was an opportunity to solve two problems with each other.

“So, Gelmir and Celebrimbor?” Finrod said to Finduilas, tapping his fingers on the desk. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Gelmir and Celebrimbor?” 

It showed how focused she was on Gwindor that she hadn’t even noticed. “They’re falling in love.” 

Her second eyebrow followed the first. “Gwindor is going to tear him to pieces.” 

“Celebrimbor is very nice.” 

“The last thing Gelmir needs is some Fëanarian coming onto him while he’s still recovering.” 

She’d misunderstood. “Oh, no, Celebrimbor still doesn’t know it’s happening. Gelmir’s been interested in him since before Celebrimbor came to Barad Eithel.” 

Finduilas seemed to re-evaluate the situation. Finrod could practically see the thoughts whirling in her head. 

“Do you think Celebrimbor reciprocates his feelings?”

“I don’t know,” Finrod admitted, “but I think he does. Or, at least, he could.” 

Finduilas was quiet again, for a long moment, until Gwindor entered, and closed the door behind him carefully. He sat beside Finduilas on the couch, and she she put her feet up on his lap. 

“Gelmir has been head-over-heels for Celebrimbor for years,” Gwindor said, as if he’d been part of the conversation all along. By all the Valar, they were as bad as Fingon and Maedhros. 

“But does he have the confidence to do anything about it?” Finrod asked him. 

Gwindor laughed, and there was nothing cruel in it. “Oh, certainly not. Or, at least, not without the assurance that Celebrimbor would appreciate such action.” 

And that was the trouble. “If I’m sending the pair of them off together, the awkwardness will only get worse.” 

Finduilas grinned. “If you send them off together without this resolved, Dúlinnien will probably crack their heads together until it is.” 

“She’d be too blunt about it for Gelmir,” Gwindor cut in. “He needs a gentle touch.” 

They both looked expectantly at Finrod. “The reason I wanted to talk to the pair of you was so I wouldn’t have to be the one dealing with this. You do know I’m the High King of the Noldor, don’t you?” 

Finduilas grinned. “Oh, we’ll help. We’ll try and get Gelmir’s confidence up. You can get Celebrimbor to make a move.” 

Well, it was better than doing it all on his own, and it would get the pair of them focused on someone else again. “Deal.” 

Celebrimbor accepted the summons to his office unquestioningly, and only really became nervous when he realized it was only the two of them. 

Finrod steeled his nerves, and played the part of a king as best he could. “What are your intentions towards Gelmir?” 

“What?” Celebrimbor crooked his head in a gesture of genuine confusion.

“Gelmir, you know, Lord of the Free Elves, formerly of Nargothrond-”

“I know who Gelmir is. My ‘intentions’ is the part of the sentence that confused me.” There must have been some self-knowledge there, because in his nervousness, Celebrimbor slipped into a haughty tone that sounded very like his father.

“Something is going on between the two of you, if you can’t figure what it is, I can and will pull you off this Vinyamar assignment.” 

That was enough to motivate him. Celebrimbor stirred to action. “They need me.” 

“Then figure out your feelings, Celebrimbor.” 

Celebrimbor stormed out of his office, looking more like his father than he ever had before. Unlike Curufin, however, he apologized when he came back an hour later. 

“I’m sorry for leaving in a temper.” 

Finrod waved a hand magnanimously. “Don’t be. You missed the part of this saga where Maglor and I were dancing around each other for weeks.” 

He took his seat back, and folded his hands awkwardly in his lap. “The truth is, you didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. I’ve been feeling… not-friend-feelings towards Gelmir for some time now.”

“When did that start?” 

Celebrimbor looked down, embarrassed. “That first night after I arrive in Barad Eithel, he came to talk to me about my father, to tell me that in his estimation, my father had acted selflessly, and had made a meaningful difference in the fight against the enemy. Hearing it from Edhellos was one thing; Gelmir’s words made it feel so real. It was also the first time I’d ever seen him so confident. We talked for hours, and by the time he went to bed, I was absolutely in love.” 

Finrod could not fucking believe that Gelmir’s line about Celebrimbor’s dead father had actually worked. What a terrible start to a very nice romance.

“So, why haven’t you said anything?” 

Celebrimbor flushed. “I don’t want to take advantage of Gelmir while he’s still finding his footing. I thought, if I was going to Vinyamar, I could wait until he’s had some time to come to a place where he’s happy with himself and his place in all this before I put any pressure on him.” 

How Curufin has produced such a sweet, thoughtful child, the world would never know. Perhaps he’d been switched at birth. “That’s perfectly reasonable, but I think you should also let Gelmir be part of that decision. He’s a perfectly competent adult who can decide at what speed he wants to move with a relationship.” 

Celebrimbor nodded. “That makes sense. Do you think he’ll be upset I didn’t talk to him about it earlier? I guess that after not being able to make decisions about his own life for so long, I shouldn’t have presumed.” 

Switched at birth. Definitely. “I think that you should talk to him about that.” 

“I will,” Celebrimbor promised, and, leaning in, he planted a kiss to Finrod’s cheek, and flew gracefully from the room. 

From then on, the tension between him and Gelmir had decreased greatly. Now, instead of looking from afar, they settled into a relationship of some sort that involved a great deal of casual touching, and Celebrimbor leaning down to whisper in Gelmir’s ear over who-knows-what. They still weren’t courting, Gelmir had clarified, mortified that Finrod had asked, but they were more than friends, letting their relationship evolve in as much time as it took. Both of them seemed happy with the relationship, and they were chaste enough that Celebrimbor never did get torn to pieces by Gwindor, not even verbally. In the weeks it took the Free Elves to prepare to leave, and to recruit a decent number of men to accompany them, the most serious thing Finrod ever witnessed between the pair was Celebrimbor pressing a kiss to the very top of Gelmir’s head. It was very strange, but, well, as long as they were both happy, then so was everyone else.

After the Free Elves left, Gwindor and Finduilas returned to Nargothrond. It was where they were meant to be, in a sense. The engagement continued, in its breezy way, but with somewhat more light than it had when Finrod had been in Nargothrond. Then, with Gelmir missing, all wedding planning had been fraught with unspoken tension, and had usually fizzled out until nothing much came of it. Now, much of that tension had abated. They talked about rings, and when they could have the ceremony, and who might come, with far less concern. The thought was that they might be married in a summer or two, in Nargothrond- Orodreth couldn’t have left, and all their friends were there- and Gelmir, Edhellos, Celebrimbor and Finrod would all come down, while Dúlinnien and Fingon held their respective positions.

And so it went. Fingon returned from Himring at the end of the year, looking better rested than Finrod had seen him since Valinor, and reclaimed his crown. Maglor went back to Himring, sadly, and with many promises to Finrod that he could, and would, return. Edhellos came and went, as she ever had, under her own law. The dual power of the Free Elves was maintained. Dúlinnien as their Queen, and Gelmir as their extremely reluctant Lord. Gwindor seemed extremely proud of Gelmir, as did Celebrimbor, who began traveling between Vinyamar and Nargothrond frequently.

Maglor stayed in Himring for almost a year, allowing Maedhros to do some traveling of his own. Whatever it was, it was all top secret. Fingon knew, but wouldn’t even tell Finrod what, though he said if it went according to plan, Finrod would know. Maglor might have shared, but unlike Fingon and Maedhros with their marriage bond, Finrod and Maglor couldn’t talk over such great distances. It was hard, not to see him. Maglor, who with some concentration could talk to Maedhros from Barad Eithel to Himring, had hoped that he might achieve the same effect with Finrod, but it hadn’t worked. Finrod wished he could have said he was surprised. Maglor and Maedhros had grown up hand in hand, and had an uncannily close connection, even for siblings. Amrod and Amras were the same, and Aegnor and Angrod had been, before their deaths. Finrod couldn’t reach Galadriel that far, let alone someone he hadn’t been close to for nearly as long. It wasn’t his greatest skill. The only person he might’ve had a chance with was Turgon, and that would have been dubious at best.

“It’s an alliance,” Fingon told him over breakfast, almost three years after Beren had come to Nargothrond. Maedhros had recently returned to Himring, and dispatched Maglor back to Barad Eithel to meet with Finrod before they both traveled to Nargothrond for the wedding.

Finrod looked up from his porridge. “In a sense, I suppose a marriage is an alliance, but I’m not sure I’m going to use that line for Gwindor and Finduilas, if it’s all the same to you.” 

Fingon laughed. “Was that what we were talking about? Sorry. I was speaking with Maedhros. He says we’ve officially reached the stage of the plan where you need to know. It’s an alliance. Maedhros has been going around, securing men and dwarves. We plan to throw the entire remaining strength of Beleriand at Angband, and see what happens.” He winced. “Maedhros says it’s a much more complicated plan then that.” 

Knowing Maedhros, it was definitely a much better plan than what Fingon had implied. “So, who’s that then? Azâghal, I assume, if Maedhros has been talking to dwarves? Us. Nargothrond.” 

Fingon nodded. “Probably no Doriathrim unless Lúthien agrees and convinces them, but Dúlinnien is in, and Celegorm says he’ll come alone if he has to. Caranthir has some men friends. It’s a great crowd, all told. If I can reach him, Turgon. Maedhros wants to run a plan that’ll work with or without him, but I don’t know if it’s possible to create something so convoluted that works both ways.”

Finrod folded his hands on the table in front of himself. “Are you planning to convince Turgon yourself?”

Fingon flushed. “Actually, I was hoping you would try. I think you have a better track record reaching out to him than I do. And we could compromise the security of his home, if we both try too hard.”

They could, but, truth be told- “why shouldn’t we compromise the security? If we’re throwing everything at him, we win, or we die. There’s no half measures.”

“I don’t think Turgon will appreciate that very much. Especially if we don’t give him any choice in the matter.” 

That was true enough. But how could they give choice to someone who didn’t ever respond to any messages? A notification, they could pass along easily, but a conversation? They needed someone who could discover where Gondolin was, go there to speak to Turgon in person, and stay happily if Turgon told them to shove the battle plan where even Varda couldn’t see it. Someone who had a stake in the city. Someone like-

“I might need Celegorm to do me a favour.”

Fingon blinked, startled. “Is this the sort of favour that gets me a few thousand soldiers?”

“I hope,” Finrod told him, “that it’s the sort of favour that gets you a few thousand soldiers, a brother, a niece, a nephew, and a very clever trap. But that depends on Turgon, I suppose.”

Fingon grinned, wickedly. “Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?”

Returning the expression in kind, Finrod said, “yes, you do.”

Unlike Fingon, Finrod was more than happy to share his plans. “Morgoth wants Turgon. He hates being outplayed. If he thinks he has a chance to get him-”

“He’ll take it. He strikes at Turgon, thinking he has the upper hand, and we strike at him while he’s distracted. Like Curufin did.” 

Finrod nodded. “Meanwhile, Turgon actually knows that he’s going to be attacked, and gets all the civilians out of the city.” 

Fingon grinned, widely. “All we need is a way to make Morgoth aware of the location without letting him know that we know.” 

“And that’s where Celegorm comes in. Not only can he track Maeglin, and stay if Turgon says no, he’s also an unpredictable factor. Morgoth would be unsurprised if Celegorm… blew up, and left Gondolin in an unpredictable, traceable way.” 

“But if we didn’t act as though he’d done something wrong-”

That was true. “Fake a schism. If Celegorm really betrayed the Noldor, Maedhros would still stand by him. No offence, Nelyo. I’d do the same for Galadriel. Stop sending letters, official communications. Let Morgoth think you don’t approve of his actions. Let him think we’re weak. But really, you’ll be talking every day, and just when he thinks he’s outmaneuvered us, reinforcements arrive in Gondolin, Maedhros’s troops merge with ours.” Finrod brought his hands together in a vague demonstration of synergy.

“It’s not honourable,” Fingon and Maedhros pointed out. 

That was fair. “No. But we aren’t. My fight with Sauron showed me that thinking we’re good isn’t enough. We have to actually live with our actions, do what we can. If you think this can help people, can protect people, then I say we do it.” 

“Maedhros agrees,” Fingon said, after some internal deliberation. “If Celegorm and Turgon agree, we go ahead.” 

Fingon reached out his hand, and Finrod shook it. Then, they returned to discussions of the upcoming wedding as if nothing had happened. It would be years yet before their plan would come to fruition, but that was the moment when the seed began to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spotted nutcracker mates for life. 
> 
> 1.5 chapters remaining!!!


	12. Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unnamed Battle of the Union of Maedhros, and after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TWs: character death, blood and injury, grief and depression, panic. 
> 
> It’s a big one kids. Look after yourselves.

Finrod stood on the walls of Barad Eithel, and guided the ballistae and catapults to fire away from where Fingon led the forces on the ground. His bonds were shuttered tight. No scream, no death, would break through them. It was a choice Maglor had begged him to make once their forces had been pushed back into Hithlum, until Finrod had agreed, although he had a sneaking suspicion that Maglor had not chosen the same. 

“But the dragon-”

“Do you want to explain to Lord Maedhros why you were shooting at Fingon?”

Nobody did. They turned back to their work, and aimed away. Finrod raised his crossbow and fired a single shot. It took an orc through the side of the head, and the body crumbled. He ducked down to reload, and when he looked back up, the High King’s banner was gone beneath a writhing sea of orc and elf and dragon. 

He had to check. He couldn’t check. He hadn’t seen Fingon since the High King had lead their forces towards Angband, before the retreat, before they had realized that Morgoth had not sent all too many orcs and dragons to Gondolin. This had all been compounded by the fact that although Maedhros’s ‘attacking army’ (really reinforcements), had arrived on time, Caranthir, whose troops would have increased their numbers by at least half again, was running seriously late. Finrod wanted to check on him too, but knew that if one, or both of them, oh Eru, were dead, it would destroy him utterly. His troops needed him there. His friends needed him there.

“Prince Finrod!” A messenger called. “Lord Celebrimbor wants to know if he should blow up his father’s monument?” The grave marker was in the middle of the battlefield.

“It blows up?” Finrod demanded. Then, answering his own question. “Of course it does. Tell him to operate under his best judgement. Try not to kill any of ours if he can help it.”

The messenger bowed, and scampered back down the stairs. Finrod raised his crossbow and struck the commander of an orc legion that was moving close to the walls. 

“My lord!” An elleth called. “Banners coming in from the east.” 

“About time, Caranthir.” Finrod murmured, feeling truly hopeful for the first time all day, and he turned to look. 

They were no banners he’d ever seen on a battlefield before. Which meant it could only be one person, really, given the numbers. Lúthien. And indeed, there they were, she and Beren, leading the troops, and beside them, Galadriel and Celeborn, armed and armoured. They had none of them been expected, Beren and Lúthien only recently having become parents, but that was them, at the head of a force who must have been the Doriathrim, flocking to their princess in her hour of need.

The battle turned in their favour, after that. Many Doriathrim had come, enough that it made up for Caranthir’s conspicuous absence. Finrod could not think about that. It might tempt him to reach out and look. He focused instead on those of the family he knew still lived. He could see Galadriel and Lúthien, and Maglor’s banner flying with Dúlinnien’s. Edhellos was alone, but Angrod’s banner flew high above the field, signalling the life of the elleth who it had come to represent. Celegorm and the Ambarussar were supposed to be with Turgon, which meant that they were far safer than their brothers here. Celebrimbor was with Finrod in Barad Eithel, and was certainly alive. The most conspicuous absences of those who were certainly on the battlefield were Gwindor, Fingon, and Maedhros. Maedhros’s banners had not even been seen during the retreat, which meant that he had either gone after the silmarils, or was already dead.

The sudden shaking of the ground sent Finrod stumbling. He grabbed the edge of the ramparts, and barely managed to stay upright. Most were not so lucky. It was probably only how used he was to feeling unsteady that saved him. Most fell over. One poor man tumbled back over the edge of the ramparts into the city. The sickening noise his body made hitting the ground told Finrod that he would not be getting up. 

“What was that?” The elf who had wanted to shoot at Fingon asked, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Nothing good.” Finrod looked over the battlefield, and knew who the only being in Beleriand who could have done something like that was. 

And then, because Finrod was perennially unlucky, the second reverberation sent him tumbling forward to crack his head hard on the edge of the ramparts, and blackness rushed up to meet him. 

Wake up! 

Finrod’s eyes shot open to find Maglor and Celebrimbor leaning over him. He was inside, which was new. He could feel bandages wrapped around his head, and the dull throbbing of where he’d struck it against solid stone. Maglor was holding a bloody cloth against his own right temple, and the left side of his hair was about half as long as the right. Celebrimbor seemed to be unhurt, but his face was grim. 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Maglor joked, flatly. 

Finrod tried to push himself up on his elbows. “What happened? Did we win?” 

“For certain values of win,” Celebrimbor muttered, “Morgoth fled, with most of his allies. Maedhros has the Silmarils. Someone-” the look he gave Maglor implied who- “beat Sauron into the dirt in single combat, and we got rid of a few dragons, and Turgon’s forces killed four balrogs.” 

If that didn’t qualify as a victory, then- “who did we lose?” 

“Caranthir,” Maglor said, voice thick. He was a soldier at report, not an elf speaking to his lover. “Gwindor. Edhellos. Azâghal, Húrin and Bór.” 

“Maglor-”

“Beren and Lúthien, again.” That hurt, like a knife in his heart. 

“Maglor-”

“And Fingon-”

“Is still alive!” Celebrimbor snapped. “Stop talking like he’s dead already.”

“Celebrimbor,” Maglor said, gently. 

Celebrimbor turned on his heel, and stormed out. 

“He found the body,” Maglor explained, “Maedhros was… terrifying. He’s still breathing, but the burns… I’m sure he won’t survive the night.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Finrod whispered, and extended his arms to pull Maglor into a hug. He started to cry, finally, shaking. Finrod cradled him close, and found that his own tears would not come. So much gone. Edhellos, finally, so long after her heart had died. Gwindor, newly married. Caranthir, who had never been late of his own volition. Lúthien and Beren, new to parenthood. He wondered who would care for their son, now. And Fingon- Fingon, beloved Fingon. He didn’t deserve to die. He had a son to raise, a husband to finally, finally be with. A nephew to meet. 

“Maglor, I need you to let go of me.” Maglor did as he asked, looking hurt. “Where is Fingon?”

“His room. We moved him.” Finrod tried to stand, and found that his prosthetic was gone. 

“Give me my foot.”

Maglor helped put it on with practiced hands. “You got your head pretty banged up there. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Finrod put his hand on Maglor’s shoulder and pushed himself to standing. “It won’t be stupid. You and Fingon saved my life, once, remember. All I’m doing is returning the favour.” 

“It won’t work. Every healer in the city is magically exhausted, myself included.” 

Finrod put his hands on both Maglor’s shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “We try. Fingon would have done the same for us.” 

Maglor bowed his head. “If we fail-”

“Then we fail doing the right thing.” 

Half leaning on Maglor, Finrod led him to Fingon’s bedroom. If the king was dying, they would have let him die in his own bed. He could feel the nerves, the reluctance, radiating off Maglor.

“Why are you so afraid?” Finrod asked, just outside the door. 

Maglor took his hand, and kissed it slowly. “Don’t die saving him. I can’t live with that.” 

“I won’t. We won’t.” 

“We?” 

Finrod gave him a wry smile. “Go get your harp, Maglor. I’ll be wanting accompaniment. Even if you’re exhausted, you can still make weaving the spell easier for me.” 

“Finrod-”

Finrod closed his eyes for a second. “I haven’t woven a spell, a proper one, since I fought Sauron. I’m probably the only person in Barad Eithel who isn’t exhausted by now. So, go get your harp.” 

Maglor rushed off, leaving Finrod to open the door on his own. The sight that greeted him turned his stomach. Maedhros sat on the edge of a chair at the bedside, leaning as close as he could without touching. He seemed almost uninjured, and though he was covered in blood, Finrod was relatively certain none of it was his. His prosthetic hand sat on the bedside table, with two Silmarils. They were the only sources of light in the room. On the bed itself lay Fingon, and Finrod covered his mouth to stifle a gasp. No wonder Maglor had thought he would not last the night. They had removed most of his armour, but parts appeared melted, fused together. His hair was gone, and what skin Finrod could see was a mass of burns. The door slammed shut behind him, and Maedhros looked up. 

“Ingoldo.”

Finrod steeled himself. What he had to do now would hurt, but it was the right thing. “Get up, Maedhros. You’re no help to anyone like this.” 

Maedhros made a noise of choked disbelief. “I am not going anywhere.” 

“You don’t ever have to leave this room, but I still need you to do some things for me. You’re going to wash all that blood off- seriously, that’s disgusting- and you’ll need to get me some light. I don’t like working in the dark. And open the windows, too. It’s stifling in here.” 

“I don’t understand.” Maedhros’s voice cracked. 

Finrod sighed. “You are currently sitting in the presence of the only unexhausted healer in Barad Eithel, and he owes your husband a blood debt. So get up, and help me.” 

This, finally, seemed to spur Maedhros to action. He stood, eyes lingering on Fingon’s face for a long moment, and threw the shutters open. A gust of cold night air flooded the room, and gave Maedhros some trouble as he attempted to light the lantern. But he lived in a windier castle than this, and so he managed. Finrod considered taking Maedhros’s seat, but it looked kind-of sticky, so he moved everything off of the bedside table and perched there instead. In his head, he assembled a list of all the things he needed, and sent it to Celebrimbor, who had gone somewhere to cry. When he arrived, eyes still clouded with shock and grief, Gelmir was with him, looking much the worse for wear. He was lugging a bucket of water, while Celebrimbor carried his tools. 

Maglor, conspicuously late, arrived on their heels, holding not one harp, but two. 

Finrod took one look at him and said, “oh, no.” 

He hadn’t played since Tol Sirion. But Maedhros certainly wasn’t going to play, and neither was Fingon, which could only have meant one thing. Maedhros, who was washing blood out of his hair with some help from Celebrimbor, gave him a skeptical look. Maglor only raised any eyebrow. 

“You need it, and you know it. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

“Doing what?” Gelmir asked. Celebrimbor explained, and he said, “I play the flute, if that’ll help. Let me just go get it.”

Celebrimbor made an aborted motion to follow him, and then stopped. Maedhros sighed, and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got it, Tyelpe. Go.” 

Celebrimbor took Gelmir’s hand in his, and they left together. Finrod turned back to Maglor. “I can’t, love.”

“What are you going to do? Kill him? You really can’t make the situation worse with bad harp playing.”

Maedhros pulled off his disgusting shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the full scope of his scars, neat, orderly lines painted across his flesh. It was enough to draw Finrod’s attention away from his brother. Maedhros crossed his arms over his chest awkwardly and said, “do it, Finrod. Have a little faith.”

And there was some irony there. Finrod took the harp. It was new, polished wood with silver vines snaking up the sides. Finrod ran his hands over them, caressing the intricate, beautiful leaves. It felt so familiar in his lap, like coming home. 

“I was going to give it to you for our anniversary,” Maglor explained, and sat on the floor beside Maedhros, adding as an aside, “if you drip on me, I’ll come up there, just watch me.” That actually made Maedhros crack a tiny smile. 

Celebrimbor and Gelmir returned, with Gelmir’s flute and the third silmaril in tow. They all stood and sat there for a long moment before Maedhros reached over, and pressed both the the newly-retrieved silmarils into Finrod’s hands. 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” Finrod asked, balancing his harp carefully on his lap. 

Maedhros shrugged. “Whatever you like. See if they’re good for something.”

Finrod couldn’t hold them and play. He handed one back to Maedhros, and, carefully as he could, pressed the other into Fingon’s hand. 

“Together?” Finrod asked, and laid his hands on the instrument. “Does everyone know the tune of ‘Vairë at Work’?” 

It was an instrumental composition of Maglor’s, which, when played on a lap harp, sounded significantly more complicated than the actual range or motion it required. Everyone nodded. 

Maglor counted them in, and he, Gwindor and Finrod all began. Maedhros, who had once been a quite lovely baritone in his free time, sang wordlessly with them. Celebrimbor couldn’t sing to save his life or Fingon’s, but he tapped the beat out dutifully on one knee, and clutched his silmaril tight. And then, because it was the only thing to be done, really, Finrod reached his mind out to all of them. 

Maglor was closest to him, mind pressing in, holding his. Fingon’s mind was a mess of pain, sending out waves of agony. He was neither conscious nor coherent. It must have been incredibly painful for Maedhros; he himself, on the other hand, had a mind of fire, not painful but warm, like a fierce hug. And then there was Celebrimbor, whose mind was brilliant as his father’s, but kinder, more open and giving. Gelmir, wracked with grief, but focused, heart careful. Together, they wove song and light, love and friendship and healing. 

They sang not of death, but of life. Gelmir gave them Edhellos, holding his hand, just as they arrived at Barad Eithel. Maglor remembered her wedding, her laughing as Angrod carried her across the threshold. Celebrimbor remembered Caranthir, teaching him to knit and embroider through a series of dull family parties. Maedhros remembered Caranthir’s fierce defences of any he thought were being done down or mistreated. Gelmir added Gwindor’s wedding; all of them had been there except Maedhros, and they sang of it together, of joy and hope and new beginnings. Finrod sang of the new beginning Lúthien and Beren had built for themselves, free of the burdens of their kindred. Maglor sang of their friendship, and Lúthien’s forgiveness, a life lived in generosity. 

They sang of the future, or what it might look like, with Morgoth fled and Sauron dead, and the Noldor united once more. Maedhros sang of their son, of raising him together. Maglor sang of brothers reunited, Turgon’s return, and meeting Maeglin for the first time. Finrod sang of- 

The copper wire that allowed him to move the fingers of his left hand had been coming undone on one finger for some time. He had been meaning to ask Celebrimbor to mend it, after the battle. It caught on one of the strings of the harp, and Finrod, himself caught in the moment, only realized when the string snapped with a discordant twang. They all stopped, and looked at each other- save Gelmir, obviously. Then, with a terrible, terrible horror, they turned to Fingon. 

The burns had calmed, closing and leaving new skin in their wake. Maedhros, careful, approached, and checked his pulse. He was quiet for a long moment, and then he folded over, burying his damp hair in Fingon’s neck, and began to sob in a wheezing, broken way. The others looked to each other again, even Gelmir, who turned his face towards Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor reached up and scratched the back of his neck with the silmaril, slipping his other hand into Gelmir’s. 

“Maedhros,” Maglor murmured, his voice cracking under the stress.

Finrod found his whole body was shaking with exhaustion and grief. His left hand spasmed. It hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough.

And then the hand Finrod had pressed the silmaril into came up, and grasped Maedhros close. Finrod realized, abruptly, that it was hysterical laughter, not sobbing, that had robbed Maedhros of his ability to speak. Maglor laughed too, in shock. Celebrimbor whispered something into Gelmir’s ear that made him raise his arms in triumph and whoop. 

Maedhros pulled away, drying tears of laughter, and looked up at Finrod. “Thank you. From both of us. Thank you, so much.”

Celebrimbor, pulling regretfully away from Gelmir, began prying Fingon’s armor away. It looked like it might take some time, so Finrod pushed himself up, and, wrapping one arm around Gelmir and the other around Maglor, went in search of something to eat and somewhere to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Irish mythology, ravens are associated with battle, war, and death. In Haida tradition, on the other hand, the raven is a creator/trickster figure.
> 
> "But SpaceWall, you said there would be 1.5 more chapters?!?"
> 
> I did, but the 1 chapter turned out to be almost 7000 words, so now there’s still 1.5 more chapters. Happy birthday.
> 
> Someday, someone will read that on their birthday and be *shook*


	13. Cyanolyca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations and mourning, picking up the pieces of what’s been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think there are any CWs/TWs that shouldn’t be apparent by now, but please advise me if I’ve missed something. There’s some grief/mourning, obviously.

Finrod was High King, after that. There was no particular announcement, it just happened. Fingon’s recovery would be a long and slow one, they all knew, and he would never be the warrior he was. It was a development that seemed to concern neither him nor Maedhros particularly. Maedhros was king enough for the both of them, though he had rarely worn the crown. The members of his alliance were in awe of him, stepping aside whenever he walked. Maglor, who had defeated Sauron, and, more surprisingly, Celebrimbor, received the same treatment. It was days before anyone finally bothered to tell Finrod why.

“It was the monument,” Gelmir explained, buttering his bread thoroughly. “When Morgoth came stomping out onto the field, he scattered our forces back against Barad Eithel. Celebrimbor waited until he noticed Curufin’s monument and went for it- another shiny Fëanarian trophy, I guess. Then he blew whole thing right to smithereens. Tore Morgoth’s hand to pieces. That was what made him flee. I’m not sure what was louder, the explosion or his scream. He really wasn’t expecting it. I mean, what kind of maniac puts a bomb in a funerary monument, right? Well, this kind of maniac, apparently.”

“Your kind of maniac.”

Gelmir flushed. “Yes, my kind of maniac.”

Galadriel seemed unharmed by the battle, though it was clear Lúthien’s second death had shaken her. She was quieter, now. Slower to anger and quicker to be kind. 

“It could all be torn away so fast,” she said to him, afterwards. “I wish I’d told my friends I loved them more.”

Finrod thought he knew the feeling. 

The one great loose end of it all was the boy, Beren and Lúthien’s only son. He had, evidently, been left in the care of stewards at home, but some family member would have to raise him. 

“This is for you,” the Doriathrim commander said, when he appeared before Finrod in the audience chambers. He held out a tightly sealed letter. After Lúthien’s death, he now led the forces she had enticed to leave Melian’s protection and join them. 

“Thank you, Mablung.” He turned to leave before Finrod called out, on a whim and a prayer, “wait, do you know anyone in Doriath who might have gone by the nickname Gorthebon?”

He had been thinking about Edhellos, in the wake of her death, just as he had thought of the others. So much of her later life had been shrouded in mystery. Finrod didn’t know who her friends were, what strange and far-flung people might mourn her now that she was gone. He needed answers, just one or two.

Mablung turned to face him, and his body was tired. “Yes, I do. It was me. I was Edhellos’s informant and ally in Doriath. Well, it was half me. Sometimes it was Beleg. We both thought that the work she was doing was right.”

“And what was it, that she was doing?”

Mablung seemed confused. “You didn’t know?”

Finrod shook his head. “There were rumours, but she never said.”

“Mostly, she was looking for missing people in places no one else dared to go. Finding the dead and lost. Helping their families bring them home.”

Even now, knowing she was gone, he couldn’t help but smile. Of course she was. 

He dismissed Mablung, making a note to tell Orodreth what his mother had really been up to for all those years. Then, he cracked open the seal, and pulled out the folded letter. 

_Dear Finrod,_ it said, in Lúthien’s loopy handwriting. 

_If you’re reading this, then we’re dead- we being Beren and I. He’s reading over my shoulder. We had to choose someone to write this letter to, and you were really the only choice. I love my parents, but trust neither of them, and though Galadriel has become something like a sister to me, she has not shared what you have shared with us._

_Beren says I should get to the point. If you’re reading this, then we’re dead, and I am asking you and Maglor to raise our son. I don’t want him to be taken to Doriath, and you are family, to the both of us. You can teach our son of both his heritages, from man and elf. As for Maglor, well, he has been a good friend to me, and I know that both of you would be wonderful parents. I think that being raised in a family that so clearly loves each other as Maglor’s does might be nice for Dior._

_If both or either of you are dead, or you can’t raise a child right now, then we’ve come up with a short list of people we think could be suited to the task._  
1) Galadriel and Celeborn  
2) Círdan  
3) Edhellos (you can tell her we said that)  
4) Orodreth and Uirbes  
5) Mablung and Beleg of Doriath, but only if they don’t go back to Doriath (sorry Mablung, if you were unable to deliver this and are now stuck reading it on your own)  
6) Daeron, see above condition. Also, make sure he repents everything he said about Beren. 

_All our love, always,_

_Lúthien & Beren_

Finrod crushed the letter against his chest, and wept. Later, he would unfold it, and press it into Maglor’s hand, and he too would weep. 

“I think you would be a wonderful father,” Maglor told him, softly. 

“Are you sure we’re ready to be parents?”

Maglor reached out, and tucked a loose hair behind one of Finrod’s ears. “I’m sure that Dior needs us, and I’m sure that nobody ever knows how to be a parent until they’ve done it. At least we have eight younger siblings worth of experience between the two of us.”

And so, they became parents. Dior was a year old, and aging like a mortal. He had been left at home, and so Maglor was to be dispatched to fetch him, with Galadriel and Celeborn for company. 

They had the funerals before Maglor’s party left, at the same time as the Free Elves and the Doriathrim. They buried Edhellos where Curufin’s monument had been, and Finrod sang her funerary lament. They buried Caranthir, and Maglor sang his lament. There were no laments or burials for Ulfang, who had killed him, and been killed by Bór in turn. Ulfang’s people had dispersed, many running into the orcs retreating from Gondolin and being killed by accident or cruelty. Gelmir buried Gwindor- Finduilas, hearing her husband was already dead, had ordered that they not wait for her- and the Doriathrim buried their beloved princess side by side with her husband. The dwarves took their bodies away with them, to be entombed in stone. Bór’s sons burned his body, and passed his crown down in the ceremony. Húrin, by Fingon’s orders, was given the highest honours any Noldorin lord could receive. His brother Huor, whose wife was heavily pregnant, could not stay at Barad Eithel for the ceremony, but his own wife, and his only living child were there. 

The boy would be the Lord of Dor-Lómin, when he was older. But for now, he was furious, and only a little higher than Finrod’s hip. He balled his fists in anger and lashed out at anyone who came too close. The mortal children had stopped trying, but elven children, who could be uncannily perceptive about these things, all watched him with big, careful eyes.

“I wonder if I should send him away,” Morwen- Húrin’s wife- said. With her husband gone, she was acting as regent until Túrin came of age. “I don’t think he’s happy, here.”

They were standing up on the ramparts, not far from where Finrod had been while her husband had died. But now, they looked inside instead of out, to where the courtyard was still garlanded with flowers in deference to Sindarin custom. Túrin sat on a bench, arms crossed, and glared daggers at anyone who came too close.

Finrod took her hand. “Right now, I don’t think he’d be happy anywhere. Keep a piece of your husband with you.”

Morwen’s other hand drifted almost unconsciously to her stomach. “I’m already carrying a piece of Húrin with me.”

“Congratulations.”

Morwen shook her head. “Don’t congratulate me yet. It’s bad luck to offer congratulations this early in the pregnancy. In fact, by the old ways, you shouldn’t congratulate me until she’s a woman grown.”

Mortal women often lost pregnancies and young children. Morwen had already lost at least one child that Finrod knew of. “She?”

“I have a good feeling about it.”

Finrod had a good feeling, too. It was slow growing, weighed down by lost cousins and sisters and friends, but it was there. It took him a while to name it. Peace. The others felt it too, he thought. 

With the other armies gone, Barad Eithel felt small and quiet. Of all the visiting elven nobility, the only one who remained was Maedhros, and his presence seemed small, in some ways. He held his husband close, and made sure he wanted for nothing.

“You should announce your wedding publically,” Finrod told them, when, during a moment of whimsy, they all decided to have a midnight meal in Fingon’s room. It was the sort of thing they would have done as children, they eldest sons. The age gap between Maedhros and Finrod was not insignificant, but they had shared the burden of being responsible for others, even in Valinor, and they carried that with them. It was a bond between the three of them, even with so many of those for whom they had been responsible gone. Two siblings gone, each.

Maedhros sighed. “I wish we could.” 

“Who’s stopping you?” They looked at each other. “No, seriously. What authority in Beleriand can stop you? The High King of the Noldor? Thingol? Thingol’s daughter married a mortal, and the Sindar don’t have the Noldorin obsession with proper matches to the same degree. The Valar? They know about it, even if the people don’t.”

Fingon sighed. “The people are what would stop us.”

“How? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but the two of you have never been more popular. The House of Fëanor has never been more popular. Celegorm is a hero in Gondolin, and Curufin in Vinyamar. Celebrimbor is probably the most celebrated of all the Noldor. He blew up Morgoth.”

They looked at each other, and then, unfolding himself from where he sat on the bed, Maedhros dropped to one knee, and pulled a ring off of a chain around his neck. “Fingon, will you marry me again?”

Fingon laughed, and said playfully, “oh, I don’t know, that wasn’t very romantic.”

Maedhros launched into a recitation of a very long romantic poem that predated all of their births and those of their parents. Fingon laughed again. 

“Fine, fine, you’re romantic, you’re romantic, now, for the love of all the Valar, stop that.”

“But will you marry me?”

Fingon rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap. Yes.”

“Awww,” Finrod cooed, and then ducked as Fingon threw a piece of cheese at him. 

They never made an official announcement, but the lies and deflections that had been part of life in Barad Eithel for the past few centuries simply stopped. Maedhros moved into Fingon’s room, and it became not an uncommon occurrence to see the two of them holding hands or kissing in public. Finrod proved to have been right about Maedhros’s popularity, too. At the first state dinner, three months after the Dagor Thelyn- so it was being called- he received a standing ovation from the royal court and visiting Haladin dignitaries. Himring, for the time being in the care of Amrod, was apparently bustling with life, operating as a true city after so many years of being a fortress. People voyaged there from all over, eager to see the city of the great hero, and to make trade ties there.

Many new people came to Barad Eithel too. The first Gondolodrim had trickled in during the first weeks and months after the Dagor Thelyn, but their city had been almost destroyed by Gothmog- thankfully dead- and his forces, and their leadership had been occupied with the rebuilding efforts. Amrod and Amras, required to take up Maedhros and Caranthir’s mantles, had left the rest of the lords bound up in it. Some of the leadership of Gondolin had perished in the battle, most notably the Lords Egalmoth and Penlod. This loss had only weighed further upon those who remained, increasing their commitment to the once-hidden city. Celegorm was first to free himself from these chains of duty, and, pleading grief for his lost brother, brought himself to Barad Eithel, young Maeglin in tow. 

The boy, though grown and, he proudly reported, victorious in battle, had so much yet of childhood in him. He could barely sit still through the dinners and meetings, and was often to be found in the forges at odd hours, working on nothing in particular. He reminded them all so much of Curufin, it hurt. 

“It’s funny,” Maedhros said to Celegorm, when he realized the similarity, “I always assumed he would be more like you.”

Celegorm, looking at Aredhel’s small and dark and brilliant son from across the courtyard, said, “I think this makes more sense, in a way. They’re gone, but still with us.”

Maedhros sighed, and pulled his brother close. 

They went back to Gondolin to free poor Turgon and Idril from the same dutious chains. Arriving just as Celegorm and Maeglin left, the most important party to date presented themselves in Barad Eithel.

Círdan brought the boy himself, riding upon the same horse together. It had been years since young Artanáro had seen either of his fathers, and yet still, when Círdan first set him down, he ran straight to Maedhros. Fingon, of course, looked very different, but Maedhros was the same, save that he smiled more, and he lifted his son with practiced ease, and told him how big and tall and strong he had gotten, and they spoke of many silly things, while Fingon held both of them tight. 

He looked not at all like either of his fathers. His hair was the same shade as Galadriel’s, and his soft features were almost Vanyarin in nature. But there was no doubt that he was theirs. Finrod could feel it when he entered the room, a little premonition, a little residue of the strong bonds of parental love. It made the epessë, which Círdan had apparently bestowed, all the more fitting. Little Ereinion, Scion of Kings. 

He was instantly the darling of Barad Eithel, much to Fingon’s concern- “what if he becomes spoiled?”- and Maedhros’s amusement- “then he’ll be exactly like all of his parents, grandparents and uncles”. Finrod didn’t think they had much to worry about. Ereinion seemed a very respectful boy, though he was inquisitive to a fault. By the end of the month, there was no nook, cranny or crevice in Barad Eithel that he hadn’t crawled into, and three different search parties had had to be called. 

Turgon and Idril arrived during the last of these, and thus were thrown into Barad Eithel during a period of chaos. The good news was, it significantly lowered their expectations. The bad news was that Turgon had been under the impression that there were two missing children- Maedhros’s son and Fingon’s son- and had had to be roughly disabused of the notion by an irate Erestor before he’d even unpacked. The dinner they sat through was awkward to an unprecedented degree, and Idril, seeing a chance to leave before dessert, pleaded exhaustion from the road and vanished. Fingon and Maedhros left to put Gil-galad to bed soon after, and this chain reaction of dispersions left only Turgon and Finrod sitting there, an uneaten tart still in front of them. 

“It’s good to see you,” Finrod said, after a pause. He wasn’t hungry.

Turgon folded his hands carefully in his lap. “I don’t know what to say; everything seems to be a misstep.” 

“Erestor was only so harsh with you because he was afraid. It could have been worse. You could have offended Fingon.” 

Shoulders relaxing slightly, Turgon asked, “how long have they been… doing whatever they’re doing?” 

He should have just asked them. It would have been easier. “They’ve been married since after Thangorodrim, but they’ve only been open about it for a few weeks. Maedhros’s brothers knew; I didn’t until my injury, and as far as I know, neither did any of my siblings. I don’t know if your father knew or not.” 

Turgon’s face was a mask, hiding his feelings, but there was no disguising the hurt in his voice. “So, they told Maedhros’s siblings, and not me?” 

“I think they were afraid how you would react. You hated Fëanor’s sons then. Maybe you still do, I don’t know. Maedhros’s brothers had only just got him back. Compared to that, a slightly unsuitable husband is nothing. I mean, they let him get away with giving away the crown.” If it had been Galadriel, Finrod would have felt hurt, but he also felt a certain protective feeling for Fingon and Maedhros. They had suffered so much for the Noldor, for Finrod, and they deserved more than judgement from those they loved.

Turgon finally cracked a tiny smile at that. “Fëanor would have been furious.” 

“Probably,” Finrod agreed, “but maybe not for the reasons you would think. He always wanted his sons to have very proper, stable marriages. Maedhros and Fingon, despite their unusual circumstances, are the very model of propriety. A long courtship, a son, both of noble birth, and they’ve never even looked at anyone but each other.” 

Maglor and he had discussed this sort of thing at length, as they had worked out what it meant for each of them, to be committed to the relationship they shared in addition to- not, they agreed, in place of- those that had preceded it. For Finrod, it meant the possibility of losing Amarië if she did not agree, of being tied to the House of Fëanor and its many woes. For Maglor, it meant losing the respect of his father, and the thought that many would believe him unfaithful to his wife, though it was by her wishes and consent that their relationship had begun. 

“And so, why would he have been furious?”

Fëanor, for all his faults, had never loved too little or too weakly. “He would have been furious with all the world, for all the suffering it had brought upon his children.”

Turgon nodded, solemnly. “I think I can understand that.”

He sounded so sincere that Finrod couldn’t really stay mad. “How is Idril?” 

“I don’t know. She confessed to me recently that she had been having negative premonitions about Maeglin, but apparently they’ve stopped now. I think she’s glad to be out of Gondolin, but I- my biggest reservation to saying yes to this plan was seeing her exposed to all the dangers of Beleriand again.” 

In another life, Turgon and Fëanor would have been terrifying friends. “She’ll be alright, Turno.” 

He sighed. “I know. But it still scares me.” 

“Of course it does; it’s terrifying.” Finrod had to tell him. He had to. “Turgon, there’s something you need to know.” 

“What, are you married to a Fëanorion too?” 

Finrod could not imagine the look of shock, humiliation, and guilt that crossed his face. Turgon, looking at him, muffled a laugh into his hand. 

“Define married.” 

“Eru witness it, I never saw such a funny face in all my life!” Turgon burst out, and dissolved into wheezing laughter. He sounded like a donkey having an aneurysm. 

Finrod didn’t know what to say. “Turgon, I’m trying to tell you that I’m having sex with Maglor!” Well, probably not that. 

Turgon doubled over so hard he hit his head on the table, and rested it there as his laughs subsided into silent shaking. 

“Are you alright?” Finrod asked him.

Turgon shook his head, and then nodded, confusingly. “I’m alright. I’m alright. I figured it was Maglor once I saw the look on your face.”

Turgon usually wasn’t so emotionally perceptive. “How’d you work that out?”

“Maedhros and Celegorm are taken, Caranthir and Curufin are dead, and as far as I know, you haven’t spent any time with Ambarussa in years.”

“Celegorm is taken?” And Maglor wasn’t? Celegorm wasn’t even married. 

Turgon pulled up off the table to raise an eyebrow at him. “You may remember that I used to have a sister with considerable charm.”

“They were-”

“They wanted to be, but things don’t always work out the way we want. I pushed her very strongly against him, at the time, but now I wonder. Celegorm never would have hurt her the way Eöl did. And yet she clearly loved Maeglin so much, and with Celegorm, he might never have been born. Regardless, it’s very clear to me that Celegorm’s feelings are unchanged.”

Finrod reached out to touch him, and paused. “Can I hug you?”

Turgon reached out, and stroked a thumb over one of the faded scars on Finrod’s face. His touch was feather-light, almost like a lover’s. And then he pulled Finrod to his chest as tight as he could and said, “open your heart to me, please.”

Even in the months since Turgon had agreed to open Gondolin, they hadn’t been like they were before, in the tree-lit days of their youth. There was so much darkness in both of them, years and walls and loss between them. Turgon hadn’t been there on many of the darkest days of Finrod’s life, and Finrod had not been there on Turgon’s, when he had watched his sister die, when he had executed her husband and buried their father. 

“I love you,” Finrod told him, and reached through their bond to wrap his own mind around Turgon’s. There, he discovered something truly remarkable.

Turgon was healing. Not quickly, and not totally. There was still gaps in his heart, where Elenwë had been, where his father and sister and brother had been. But there was new hope, now, arising where the old hope had wilted and died. New love, for the nephew who had become like a son to him; renewed love thrived, in his connection to Fingon, which had once been stained by bitterness and resentment, and was now a shining beacon of their love for one another.

What did I miss between you and Fingon? 

Nothing in particular. I just forgave him for something that was never his fault, and he stopped resenting that I’d blamed him in the first place. 

Over Maedhros? 

Technically, over Elenwë. But yes, I suppose, over Maedhros. 

What changed your mind? 

A lot of things. Just now, I’ve learned that when we first fought about it, Fingon was grieving the same loss I was, and had nobody to tell about it. I should have been there for him. I should have listened. I’ll tell him that tomorrow; I’ll apologize. But the first thing was Celegorm. It was- I think it might be impossible to resent someone who looks after your children as well as Celegorm cares for Maeglin. And if I wasn’t going to blame Celegorm for the ice, well, how could I blame Maedhros? And then I heard him telling Maeglin that Maedhros had refused to be party to burning the ships, and I realized that I’d been a tremendous fool the whole time. 

Maedhros what? 

I know! Apparently they don’t talk about it. Maedhros thinks it sounds like pride over nothing. Celegorm was telling Maeglin some long, complicated story about his relationship with his father, so I guess it was relevant. 

Weird. 

Makes a lot more sense now that I know he was getting in Fingon’s pants. 

It had been so long since they too had sat like this and talked about something that didn’t matter. Family gossip, friend gossip, some secret or another. 

I really missed you. 

Turgon, a not especially physical person at the best of times, kissed Finrod on the forehead. “I’m sorry.” 

“I forgive you.” 

There was a moment’s pause before Turgon thought: so, Maglor? 

Finrod sighed, and began his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Just an epilogue left, and then this story is finished. I can’t believe it either. 
> 
> Cyanolyca are a genus of small jays who often form mixed-species flocks.


	14. Sparrow (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very important day in the life of Finrod Felagund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A genuinely happy story.

Maglor’s fingers wove quickly through his hair, creating extraordinary patterns in their wake. It was familiar, and Finrod closed his eyes, and let the sensation drift over him. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Maglor joked, without stopping his task. He gave a tug on Finrod’s hair for emphasis. 

“Shan’t,” Finrod muttered, but pointedly left his eyes closed. 

Maglor said nothing more, but he hummed quietly as he worked. It was early in the morning, and most of Barad Eithel was asleep, as were all the guests. Once preparations and festivities began, the pair of them would be utterly swamped, so now in the pre-dawn light, they seized one final moment of privacy. Finrod exhaled softly. 

The knock came just as Maglor pinned the final sapphire clasp in place, and pulled away to admire his work. Finrod caught a glimpse of it through Maglor’s eyes, and returned his approval.

“So it begins,” Maglor murmured. “Come in!”

Dior opened the door shyly, still in his nightshirt, and blinked at them, eyes uncomprehending. “You’re dressed already?”

“Someone has to dress you, too,” Finrod retorted. “Did you remember to bring your gown?”

Dior showed his empty hands, and sat on the edge of their bed like the child he had so recently been. It seemed like only days since Finrod had first held their son in his arms, and now here he was, on his wedding day. It was faster for mortals, or, in this case, half-mortal quarter-elf quarter-maiar, but, Turgon had reassured him repeatedly, it felt like they were growing up too quickly no matter how elven the child. 

“I can’t dress you if you don’t bring the dress,” advised Maglor, twirling his comb like a wicked dagger. He sat beside Dior, and wrapped an arm around him. Dior sighed, and buried his head in Maglor’s shoulder. 

“Second thoughts?” Finrod asked, only half joking. A wedding was a big commitment, and Dior wasn’t even a quarter of a century old. It was a normal age to wed for a mortal, but for an elf-

“Never,” he mumbled into Maglor’s skin, “she’s already my best friend.”

Maglor pried him away, pushing dark locks from Dior’s eyes. “Well then, ion, let’s go fetch you breakfast while your father continues beautifying himself.”

“Fuck off,” Finrod said, and couldn’t help but watch fondly as Maglor half dragged their son towards the kitchen. Maglor and his brothers had been teaching Dior how to sneak food from the cooks and charm them while doing it since he had first arrived in Barad Eithel, and now would be the last time it would happen while they all lived together. In deference to mortal custom, Dior would create and move into a marital home all of his own. He would not be bound to his inheritance the way the sons of previous High Kings had been. It didn’t matter as much, with Fingon alive and well in Himring, offering Maedhros the legitimacy he needed to rule all their eastern provinces. If something happened to Finrod, he knew already what it was to be king, and would be able to rule with Maedhros at his side.

Things had not become perfect with Sauron dead and Morgoth in retreat. Reports had been coming in from the east for months of Morgoth attempting to create a new base there. Maedhros worried; Finrod found it difficult not to succumb to the same vice, but they were stronger now than they had ever been. The alliance held, and, having tasted victory, would not give up the hunt. Doriath, angered by what they viewed as the theft of their heir, had initially threatened war. Mablung and Beleg, in open rebellion, had refused to return Thingol’s army until he allowed his daughter’s will to be followed to the letter. Melian had changed her tune soon after, and the war had ended before it had begun. After that, all of Beleriand had been together. They were still tentative and awkward, but stronger still for the effort. They were a pleasure to rule.

“We brought scones!” Dior announced, presenting his prizes wrapped in one of Maglor’s handkerchiefs. The smile he gave Finrod was radiant, and he pressed a scone into his hand with a wink. 

Finrod returned the wink. “Thank you. Now, eat. We can’t have you getting crumbs on your clothes.”

Dior set himself to this noble task, while Maglor took a comb to his hair with a vengeance. Finrod dug into his pastry. It was warm and sweet, as the late summer berries offered their ripest bursts of flavour.

“This is why you have children,” Finrod advised them, “they bring you breakfast on their wedding day.” 

Dior stuck his tongue out at him. “That’s just because I’m the best.” 

“You’re the best son I have,” Maglor agreed, “and yet also the worst son I have. What a mystery.”

“I hate you.”

Maglor only laughed before wondering, “did you ever decide if you wanted me to braid around to the front or straight down your back?”

Dior had always hated pinning his hair up, practically since birth. That he was allowing Maglor even this was a major concession to the natural order of things. 

“It looks beautiful when you braid it over his shoulder,” Finrod commented, slyly. “And it makes you look like your mother.”

Dior ducked his head. Mention of his own beauty, and the ways that beauty imitated Lúthien always made him a little uncomfortable. Nienor felt much the same about the illustrious father she could not remember. 

“Which side would she have worn it on?”

Finrod wracked his memory. “Left, I think?”

“Then braid it over the left,” Dior requested, nodding along with his own words. 

In deference to the Sindarin in him, they didn’t press Dior into braiding jewels or precious metals into his hair. The dress was fine enough, and more, he would have his own Melian-inherited beauty. Wearing dirt and rags in the High Court in Tirion, Dior would still have been the most brilliant, shining person there. It was a gift and a curse. A gift of power, of beauty and charm. A curse of judgement, of objectification and of, at the most terrible times, physical threat. People treated him like a fourth silmaril. It wasn’t right, or fair, but Dior had survived it with incredible grace and dignity. And now here he was, on his wedding day. What a world they lived in. 

Maglor was securing the last of Dior’s hair when the second knock came at their door. This time, Finrod called, “who is it?”

“Me,” Galadriel called back, and opened the door without waiting for permission. Her hair wasn’t done, but she already wore the shimmering periwinkle dress she clearly intended for the actual event. She was bejewelled like a Noldë too, rings and a broach, a silver clasp over her ear and the matching coronet. She was only spared from a necklace by how high the neckline of her dress was, but since the design incorporated a belt of silver rings and sapphires, it more than made up for it. 

“Did you bring that from Tirion?” Maglor asked, eyeing her carefully. 

Surprised, Galadriel nodded. “Actually, yes.”

“I thought so. Celumë thought that the belts and the high neckline were a nice combination.”

It was, for a Noldorin dress, relatively subtle. Nothing compared to the dazzling creation Dior had selected. 

“I came to offer to help. With, well, whatever. I’m doing Silvan braids, so it shouldn’t take me long to finish getting ready.”

Finrod opened his mouth to tell her not to worry about it, but Dior batted his eyelashes jokingly and responded, “Auntie Galadriel, can you bring me my dress?”

Galadriel rolled her eyes hard, but she also slipped out of the room, and, when she returned, carried the dress itself. 

“Are you aware that Tuor is asleep in your bed?” She asked Dior. Finrod and Maglor both gave him their disapproving-parent looks at the same moment. 

Dior waved one hand dismissively. “He insisted on seeing me off out of bachelorhood, and fell asleep partway through.”

Tuor, also still a bachelor, was, by general consensus, not likely to remain one for long. Last year, he had served as part of a routine delegation- really an attempt to foster closer relationships- with Gondolin, that had fostered relationships slightly too closely. That is to say, he and Idril had had a very respectful courtship, and Túrin and Maeglin had had a torid sexual affair. All four parties seemed happy with the scenario. Closer to eight parties, actually, if you tried to count all the people Túrin had on and off affairs with, as well as his wife. Finrod didn’t know how they did it, and was quite sure he never wanted to ask.

“Are you ready?” Finrod asked Dior. When his son nodded, he continued, “I should go put the finishing touches on everything. I’ll finish getting dressed later, but you two will have to go on without me.”

Galadriel’s sudden grin said otherwise. “Actually, Dior, consider this part of your official gift from your Doriathrim family. Celeborn, Mablung, Beleg, Daeron and I spent the better part of last night getting everything ready, with a little bit of facilitation help from Fingon. Your day is yours.”

Freeing himself from Maglor’s grasp on his hair, Dior launched off the bed and tackled Galadriel into a hug, crushing layers of green and gold fabric between them. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re crushing me!” 

Dior let her go, and took the dress too. Galadriel straightened the shoulders of her own dress. Looking at her more closely, it was clear that she had barely slept, but there was an excitement in her posture that made it difficult to tell. Despite the lack of sleep, she was happy to be there. Dior could not have asked for a better extended family, Finrod thought with something like pride, Lúthien chose them well. 

“Thank you, Artanis,” said Finrod softly, into the silence. She came and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s Dior’s wedding day. We were hardly going to let the three of you run yourselves ragged. Besides, if memory serves, you’re more than doing your part.”

It was true. They’d worked hard to combine first-born and second-born traditions into something workable, and the result, with oaths sworn to Eru and rings exchanged, as well as a sort of parental negotiation and coming-into-manhood aspect was unwieldy but workable. Finrod, as High King, was the only person other than Thingol with the power to oversee the ceremony, so Maglor would be the one standing at Dior’s side, as his father. Maglor was so thrilled Dior had asked him that Finrod could only be thrilled by it too. 

Galadriel let herself out, and they finished preparing together, the three of them. Finrod painted his face, red on his lips and blue around his eyes. Dior piled Maglor’s hair atop his head, each strand affixed in a mesmerizing pattern, silver wires holding the structure in place. A pin in the shape of a dove was the final piece, and then it was done. Finrod pinned a gold broach bearing his father’s sign atop his indigo robes. Maglor, who wore a fashionable jacket and pants, pressed every inch of wool and velvet into place. It would certainly be warm, but he looked breathtaking. And then, finally, they dedicated themselves to swathing Dior in the layers of the dress.

The mortal form of masculinity had never appealed to Dior. It valued roughness, size, that by his blood and nature, he could never have obtained. Although male-ness had never repulsed him in the way female-ness had repulsed Aegnor, there were times at which Dior would never have chosen the trappings of masculinity for himself. This was one of these. They had, repeatedly, asked if Dior would have preferred to live and be addressed as female, but he always said no. 

“He dances to his own rhythm,” Maglor had said, fake insightfully, and then laughed at his own joke, during one of dozens of discussions of the subject. 

Finrod had cuffed him, and that had been the end of trying to come up with an explanation or name for it. Fëanor would probably have had one, neurotic that he was, but Dior didn’t want one, and so, neither did they. He was Dior. 

The dress was green, in the Doriathrim tradition. Holding closer to their roots than the Noldor had, Thingol’s people still practiced many traditions associated with Cuiviénen. One was this: at weddings, the couple wore green and brown, to symbolize the fertility of the earth and the things that grew there. The Noldor had never particularly cared what colours were worn at a wedding, one way or another. That was, in part, the legacy of Míriel, who had changed everything and what and how her people dressed. 

“You look beautiful,” Maglor proclaimed, finally, as he fixed the last of the hooks that held the dress in place. 

Dior looked down at his dress, and then back up at his fathers. “Do you think they would be proud of me, like this?” 

The perpetual question of his life. Maglor, with the easy, confident speech for which he had been named, reassured, “always, and without hesitation, Dior.”

Finrod was slower to speak. When Dior had first asked such questions, he had feared lying to their son, particularly on the count of Beren. Mortals could not see the truth of the fëa- of the ‘mind’ and ‘soul’- the way elves could. But after long years of contemplation, he was sure on both counts. 

“Your mother Lúthien and your father Beren were both people with an incredible capacity for empathy. They loved each other not in spite of the ways they were different, but with and because of them. They did not ask people to be other than they were; they asked them to hold themselves to the best and highest of their own standards. They would have loved you, as you are, because you are their son. Because you are brave, and honest, and because you hold yourself to moral and ethical standards. They would see that.”

Dior wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and said, “let’s not bother with the face paints. They’ll come right off the second I see her.”

“Hers will come off the second she sees you,” Maglor retorted, pressing a kiss to Dior’s forehead. Then he bent down and began to arrange Dior’s skirts. They were like an entire forest, light through the window catching in the leaves and making the dappled patterns and hints of gold shine clear. He was smiling, and it was a joy to see his joy. Finrod stood. 

“As much help as I’m sure Galadriel has been, I should go welcome our guests.”

Maglor released Dior to kiss Finrod on the mouth. His caresses were a hearth, warm and safe and home, after the years they had spent together. Then he pulled back, and the three of them hugged, carefully, to preserve hair and paint and clothes. Maglor wiped red off of his mouth, and watched Finrod as he left. 

It was sunny and bright. Yesterday, it had thundered, delaying travel and sinking part of the pavilion into the mud. Morwen insisted this was good luck, and indeed, when Finrod met her there, she was smiling brightly. They made a fitting couple; Finrod, the High King, prepared to be standing for most of the day, was leaning on a black cane, topped by a swan for his mother’s line. Morwen, the great and respected matriarch of her people, leaned on a black cane too. She was no longer a young woman, meaning a bad fall the year earlier had slowed her down significantly. They stood together, and spoke softly, and watched the seats fill with people. 

Tuor, who must have pulled himself off of Dior’s bed at some point, was sitting beside Idril, wearing a silver-blue tunic and navy leggings. She was leaning close, and Finrod almost had to laugh at the look of consternation on Turgon’s face. 

They’re happy. 

Turgon’s eyes darted up to meet his. I know, but Lúthien…

I know. But I didn’t encourage Aegnor to take the happiness he could in the time he had. I regret that.

I wish it could have been easier. 

Don’t we all?

Turgon gave him a rueful smile. I love you. 

Finrod twiddled his gloved fingers at him.

Gil-galad, two seats down, waved back. He, Fingon and Maedhros had come down from Himring a couple weeks earlier, and Gil-galad was terrifically enthusiastic about the wedding. He was a significantly more cheerful as he approached his coming of age than Dior- who even Finrod had to admit had been a little sullen- was at the same relative age. 

Morwen tapped Finrod on the shoulder. “They’re coming.”

He straightened and focused, and watched as Daeron began to play quietly. The entire crowd focused in, and watched at Túrin led Nienor before them. Her dress, the colour of gold and caramel and a freshly tilled field, held tightly to her form. She looked lovely, and as she was passed from Túrin’s arm to their mother’s, she offered a hand to Finrod. 

“You look handsome,” he told her, and pressed a kiss to her hand. 

Nienor grinned. “So do you. The question is, does Dior?”

Finrod gave her a wink, and they all turned as one to watch Maglor and Dior approach. Finrod couldn’t keep a stupid grin off of his face. They were his family, and he adored them.

Driving from his heart, he began to speak as Daeron’s playing stopped. “Today, in the eyes of Eru, the Valar, and all our kin, we bring together Dior Elladan, son of Beren and Lúthien, and Nienor Laindes, daughter of Húrin and Morwen. Let all blessings come upon them, and ancient knowledge guide them down the paths of marriage. Maglor, father by adoption, do you give your blessings to this match?”

Maglor and Dior looked at each other. Dior nodded enthusiastically. Maglor said, “I give my blessing.”

The smile this brought forth from Nienor was one of love and glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sparrows are associated with the Greek goddess Aphrodite, and also with the Christian idea of divine providence. 
> 
> Laindes means free (female suffix). Elladan, of course, means elf-man, replacing Dior’s canonical second name, Eluchil.
> 
> FIN
> 
> Yikes. Okay. So. That’s done? I’m taking some time off from the Silm, because I don’t have anything left in my back catalogue, and my next story (Dagor Dagorath, long) needs to be completely written because it’s in non-chronological order. In the mean time, I’ll be working on an Endeavour (and, technically, also Lewis and Inspector Morse) soulmate long-term thing. Not sure what it’ll be called, but if you like one of those three TV Shows, cliched fan fiction tropes, long, meaningful looks or angst/comfort, this might be for you? Friday updates as usual, unless I get more prolific any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I love Finrod and want many good and nice things for him. 
> 
> Title comes from a joke about Maglor-Mags-Magpies. I don’t remember if FactorialRabbits came up with it, or I did, or one of us got it from somewhere else. 
> 
> Celumë is the name I always use for Maglor’s canonical wife. In this AU, she came to Beleriand with him.


End file.
